


here in the garden

by soapyconnor



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bill Williamson deserved better, Brief moments of smut, Forced Relationship, Happy Ending, Hate Crimes towards Gay Men (depicted by hanging), I'm sorry but I can't remember anything else to tag, John actually isn't Jack's father, M/M, Micah gets what he fucking deserves, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationships, both arthur and john possibly majorly OOC, mentions of abuse, mentions of torture, there are more tags but I Forgot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 11:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapyconnor/pseuds/soapyconnor
Summary: As the sound grew further and further away, John slowly let out his breath and turned towards Arthur, crawling towards him. “You all right?”“Look like I’m all right?” Arthur grunted, letting out a small moan as pain shot through his face. John crouched in front of him, pulling out a clean handkerchief as he began to clean up his face. “That was foolish, what ya did.”





	here in the garden

**Author's Note:**

> this is unbeta'd! im just extremely happy i finished it. also, if you don't like it, don't read it or leave a nasty comment, i don't care. this too so long and im just happy to punt it into the universe.   
follow me on tumblr @johnsmarstons  
follow me on twitter @heggsys

John heaved as he and Arthur climbed into an abandoned house outside of Colton, a small little mining town with a population of less than a hundred. John turned towards Arthur, flinching as he saw the cuts and scrapes along the man’s face. John ducked, inhaling sharply as he heard the sound of horse hooves rapidly storming past the house. Boadicea and Peach had taken off after the two men had dove for cover, and they were hopefully long gone.

As the sound grew further and further away, John slowly let out his breath and turned towards Arthur, crawling towards him. “You all right?”

“Look like I’m all right?” Arthur grunted, letting out a small moan as pain shot through his face. John crouched in front of him, pulling out a clean handkerchief as he began to clean up his face. “That was foolish, what ya did.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave ya behind,” John grunted, shaking his head. “You would have done the same for me anyways.” John sucked on a small patch of the handkerchief, before he used the damp patch to clean up his face. Arthur flinched, and tried to bat his hand away.

“You seem to think awfully high of yourself,” Arthur snorted. “Perhaps I don’t care about you as much as you think I do?” Shoving Arthur down, John climbed onto his lap, and began to focus on getting the shards of glass and bullet fragments out of his cheeks.

“Shut up, and let me take care of ya.” He sat himself down on Arthur’s lap, and began to focus, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Once he was done, he leaned back, smirking a bit. “Look at that, ya don’t even need stitches.” He tugged down the brim of Arthur’s hand, obscuring his view. “Your ugly mug remains undamaged for ‘nother day.”

Arthur snorted, shoving him off while John laughed aloud. “Enough, ya greasy bastard,” he replied, straightening his hat. “Ain’t like you much of a looker neither.”

Shoving the pain deep down, John began to set up camp. “Yeah, well. At least I’m able to get my dick wet every once an’ a while.” John placed their lanterns near the old fireplace, scrunching up his face as he collected some of the rotting floorboards. When he glanced over his shoulder, Arthur was sitting, and picking at his slowly closing wounds. John bit his tongue, and turned back to the fire.

John studied his thigh, sighing softly as he started to treat the graze he had earned. It didn’t hurt, it had stopped bleeding hours ago, but he’s seen people get infections from less. The old floorboards creaked, and he briefly glanced to the side. Arthur sat next to him, a few inches between the two of them. There was another moment of neither moving, before Arthur pulled out some raw meat and began to cook it, offering it to John.

“Not hungry,” John grunted, kicking his legs out. Arthur paused, clearly thinking about something because his face slowly began to scrunch. Arthur ate the piece of venison, before offering John another piece. John waved him off, stripping off his jacket and lying on his bedroll, his back facing Arthur.

“What did I do?” Arthur asked.

“Nothin’. Leave it be.”

The floorboards creaked, and John saw Arthur’s shadow began to loom over him. John closed his eyes, scrunching up tightly. Arthur sighed, and moved away, lying his bedroll out on the other side of the shack.

He woke the next morning, the entire shack having gone cold. Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair and let out a yawn, glancing towards Arthur. The man was gone.

John rose to his feet, glancing out one of the shattered windows in time to see him leading Boadicea and Peach back towards the shack. John pursed his lips into a thin line when he saw that Arthur had a couple animal carcasses on the back of Boadicea. John turned away, rummaging through his pack and pulled out a can of peas. He was heating it up over the slowly gathering fire when Arthur reentered the shack.

“Mornin’,” Arthur muttered. John grunted, poking the can of peas with a stick, before he caught the lip of the can and tugged it out of the fire. He felt Arthur’s gaze on him. “Ya don’t gotta eat peas.”

“I ain’t that hungry, Arthur.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Why do ya always got to argue with me over this shit?”

“Why can’t ya just let shit be?”

Arthur threw his hands up in the air. “The fuck, John? Seriously, the hell did I do now?”

John opened his mouth to reply, when a bullet whizzed through the shack, taking Arthur’s hat clean off of his head. John nearly feinted, his heart racing loudly in his ears as he watched Arthur drop to the floor. The worry was instantly replaced by anger when he saw Arthur sit up. “You idiot!” John shouted, as bullets began to pierce the shack, both of them crawling towards their abandoned guns. “You led ‘em right to us!”

“Figured they’d given up!” Arthur shouted, pulling his Schofield from his gun belt. “No one was followin’ me.” John wanted to argue with him, wanted to shout at him that he was a fucking fool, read him the Riot Act like John had been forced to listen to time after time. But he felt a bullet pierce his side, and he would rather be alive to yell at him.

He grabbed his rifle, placing it on the windowsill and looking down the scope. Inhale, exhale. One of the lawman’s heads exploded, and John quickly ducked back into cover, hunching as they began to direct their fire at him.

“John!” Arthur shouted, as pain shot through John’s shoulder. John gritted his teeth, and refused to look at the exposed muscle on his shoulder. Arthur went to move towards John, but John shook his head at him. Taking a deep breath, and testing his shoulder, John immediately turned and fired, quickly beheading two more lawmen.

Arthur turned, and began to fire as well. John slumped down as pain shot through his shoulder, and he took some quick, deep breaths, before he steadied himself to fire once more. His shoulder gave out as the last lawman dropped, and John slumped to the floor, taking some quick breaths before he rose to his feet.

“John—sit down—your injured—”

“Sit down?” John snapped. “Why the hell should I sit down? _You_ led the law right to us, we need t’ _go_ before they catch up t’ us again. You of all people should agree, Arthur.”

The man’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Let me at least look at your side and shoulder before we go. Ya can’t go riding around like that.” An argument was forming on John’s tongue, and he shoved his fist into the man’s chest, moaning in pain as he realized he used his bad shoulder. He stumbled, Arthur the only thing keeping him upright.

“Fine,” John grunted, “but we need t’ make it quick. I ain’t dying in this shack.”

Arthur snorted. “If you die, so am I, and I ain’t really eager to do so.”

He went quiet, peeling away part of his union suit to allow Arthur a better look at his shoulder and arm. He remained so, only grunting in pain when Arthur pushed particularly hard on a certain area. As he tugged up the arms of his union suit, Arthur asked, “Ever gonna say why you mad at me?”

“Ain’t mad.”

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve acted like you are the entire time, snapping at me durin’ a gunfight.”

“You would’ve done the same.”

“Yeah, but I’m me and you’re you, and you ain’t the type t’ do that.”

John scrunched his face up. “Ever consider that maybe I’m worried for you, dumbass?” John snapped in return. “You keep doin’ dumb stuff, almost getting yourself shot up, almost getting _me_ shot up—”

Arthur grinned at him. “Aw, Johnny, you care about me?” John thumped him on the shoulder, glaring back at him. “You know you don’t got t’ worry about me. Things always work out.”

“Don’t tell me how t’ feel.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, and he laughed. Fury began to bubble up in John’s chest, the sudden urge to make Arthur realize how much he cared about him began to overflow. Arthur set his blue eyes on him, and said, “If anything, you’re my good luck charm—”

“I ain’t your nothin’.”

Arthur laughed at him again. He continued to laugh, seeming to think that there was somethin’ so funny about all of this. The man began to wipe a tear away, and John about had enough. He grabbed Arthur furiously by the front of his shirt, yanking him close and smashing their lips together. It was a rough, short kiss, ending with John pulling away and shoving Arthur backwards. “Is that so funny now, jackass?” he snarled, shaking as he rose to his feet.

He picked up his hat, glaring down at Arthur. Arthur’s hand pressed against his mouth, and it suddenly hit John with what he had done. He froze, hand gripping tightly at his rifle. As soon as Arthur moved to get up, John ran out of the shack, climbing up onto Peach and ran.

John took the long way back to camp, making up the excuse that he wanted to make sure the law wasn’t following him. Hosea hadn’t seemed to believe it, had just raised an eyebrow, and nodded to him, before saying, “Arthur’s looking for you.”

John’s heart sank into his stomach.

Arthur’s tent was on the edge of camp, far away from Dutch’s. Hell, the only other tent around was John’s own pathetic little thing. John’s shoulder ached, and he straightened, taking a deep breath. He rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension from his back, gently pulling back the tent flaps, and called, “Arthur?”

The lump on the cot moved, and Arthur looked at him over his shoulder. “Huh?”

Shifting on his feet, John murmured, “If this is a bad time—”

Something must have clicked in Arthur’s head, because suddenly the man was on his feet, scrambling over to John and grabbing him by the shoulder. “No! Nah, come in,” he said, after clearing his throat a couple of times. “What took ya so long to get back?”

John blinked, before a deep scowl crossed his face. “You know why, Arthur. Perhaps you’re dumber than me.” Arthur released him, and John flinched. However, the older man just continued to look at him, pensively.

“Over a dumb kiss?” Arthur chuckled. “I know ya didn’t mean anything by it. Just tried t’ scare me.”

A lump formed in his throat, and he struggled to swallow around it. He coughed, futilely. “Yeah,” he mumbled behind his hand, biting into his knuckles. “Sure, it was.” He flinched again, watching as Arthur suddenly went from light-hearted to confused. _Shit_, John thought to himself, slowly backing away, his eyes darting away. He chewed on his tongue, not realizing that Arthur was rapidly closing in on him.

“Ya didn’t, did you?” Arthur asked, his eyes slowly going wide. Arthur grabbed him by the shoulders, and shook him. “You can’t.”

John shoved him off. “Stop tellin’ me shit I already know,” John snarled. “I can’t control it.”

“You sick or somethin’?” God, Arthur was too close, was so close that John could smell the soap he had used earlier than day, and the hint of whiskey on his breath. John tensed, ready to punch Arthur if he even so much as breathed wrong in his direction.

Once again, he shoved him, and growled, “I ain’t sick. If you’re just—if you’re gonna—” He swallowed. “If you’re gonna tell Dutch, just do it and get me kicked. I don’t care, but I ain’t—” He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Gonna apologize.”

John looked up, and abruptly turned away when he saw Arthur’s confusion. Turning on his heel, he exited Arthur’s tent, and storming over to Miss Grimshaw. “I hate t’ ask,” he started off, worrying his hat between his hands. Miss Grimshaw raised an eyebrow at him. “But could ya . . . move my tent? Near the horses? I . . . I been havin’ issues sleeping, and I don’t want t’ disturb anyone else.”

Miss Grimshaw crossed her arms. “I ain’t a servant, Mister Marston.”

“I’ll help you, I just . . . I figured I needed your approval,” he continued to mess with his hat, unsettled by her unwavering gaze. Miss Grimshaw sighed, and nodded. He thanked her, before gathering his stuff, pretending like he didn’t notice that Arthur was watching him.

“You and Arthur doing all right?” Hosea asked, causing John to jerk out of his thoughts. John glanced up at him, picking at the frayed ends of his gloves. The camp was relatively quiet, most of the men having gone off one some mission or another. John worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

“We’re fine.”

Hosea arched an eyebrow. “Really, now?” he asked, as he sat down, their thighs brushing. John’s leg jerked. “You moved your tent.”

“Had trouble sleeping.” He itched at his cheek, knowing that it was a pathetic lie. He looked worse for wear, having got basically no sleep since moving, always afraid he’d wake up with a knife to his throat. “Didn’t want to wake everyone up with my pacing.”

Hosea hummed, but didn’t sound like he believed him. He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip, his eyes practically burning a hole in John’s frame. “Everything’s been off since you came back from that robbery.”

John shrugged, biting down on his tongue. “It ain’t no big deal, honest.” There was movement, and Boadicea broke through the tree line, carrying Arthur and a large stag on her back. John’s back straightened, and he rose, turning away from Hosea. “Drop it, Hosea.”

John beelined for Strauss’ wagon, while Arthur headed to the other side of camp, the stag slung over his shoulder. Hosea remained at the table, and continued to sip at his coffee. John busied himself with reorganizing the bottles, hoping that it wasn’t so obvious that he was desperately trying to avoid Arthur.

“Arthur!” Hosea called. John glanced over, to see that the older man was already making his way over. Hosea smiled at Arthur, clasping his shoulder. “You up for a job, dear boy?” John whipped his head away, heart pumping loudly in his ears. He itched at his throat, pain and fear suddenly bubbling up through him. Their earlier conversation did not sit well with John. “I’ve got a house robbery for you, one that should be well and easy to take down. From the sounds of it, the owner will be gone.”

Arthur cocked his head. “Gone? Hm . . . well, all right. You comin’ with me, Hosea? Been a while since the two of us rode together.” John hunched his shoulders, obscuring himself further by practically climbing into the wagon.

“No, I think not. Dutch and I will be riding into town later tonight . . . However, John is available.” John cursed under his breath, reaching up and clutching at his hair. _Fuck you, Hosea,_ he thought as he tugged out his long strands of hair. He loved Hosea, respected him as he would his own pa, but sometimes, the man just needed to mind his own business.

He heard Arthur reply with a, “Hosea, I dunno . . .” before the man got chastised. There was a moment of silence, and John, for a second, thought Arthur had stormed off, before he felt a hand placed on the small of his back. He stumbled, knocking some of the bottles over before he turned around, seeing Arthur hovering, his hat obscuring his eyes. “Ah . . .” Arthur coughed, wiping at his mouth. “Hosea’s got this . . . ah, job, and he’d like ya t’ come with me. He’s got . . . something t’ attend to.”

John swallowed, trying to calm himself as he slowly exited the wagon. He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Ah. Sure. I guess.” John itched at his throat. “If . . . if ya don’t mind.”

Arthur shifted on his feet, refusing to meet his gaze. “Let’s not talk about that right now.”

John coughed. “All right.” Arthur nodded his head towards the horses, and the two of them slowly began to make their over, mounting up and riding out of camp, with John trailing behind.

The house robbery went a lot smoother than their previous one. It helped that when they arrived, most of the fieldworkers were eating dinner, and taking a break. John and Arthur were able to get in and out without so much as alerting anyone. They hadn’t spoken since leaving camp, and refused to look each other, even though the thrill of getting such a huge score was running through their veins.

John began to head towards Colton, stopping when he saw that Arthur kept on the trail to Boone. “Where ya going?” John asked, eyebrows furrowing.

Arthur nodded his head towards Boone. “C’mon. It’ll be better if we go somewhere and lay low. No need to accidentally bring lawmen on us if someone notices all their shit is gone.” Well . . . considering how bad the last one went; John couldn’t argue with that. Still, he was immobilized by fear, and Peach went her own way, slowly following the amber champagne Fox Trotter. John grit his teeth, digging his heels into Peach’s sides. He tightened his grip on the reins, knowing if he took his gloves off the skin would be stark-white.

“You gon’ kill me?” he asked, cursing himself when it didn’t sound like a joke. Arthur glanced over his shoulder, and John ducked his head.

“If I wanted t’ do that, I would have done it already.”

Those words . . . weren’t very reassuring. John looked down at his saddle, picking off chunks of dirt. He glanced at Arthur, and made sure to keep far behind him. He tensed when Boadicea slowed down, and he and Arthur were side by side. Arthur reached over, grabbing him by the wrist. His teeth cut through his bottom lip, and Peach trotted a bit, rearing her head and steering away from Arthur. “Whoa, girl,” John murmured, yanking his wrist away, taking slow, measured breaths.

Once Peach was calm, Arthur murmured, “John, if I was goin’ to do anything, I would’ve. I just . . . We need t’ talk. Privately. It’ll be all right, kid.” John urged Peach forward, keeping a few paces ahead. John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to loosen his shoulders. Arthur kept behind him, giving him his space till they got to Boone. Arthur nodded his head towards a hotel. “We’re goin’ there, John. Go in and buy us a room.”

Hitching Peach, John choked out, “Sure,” before he headed inside. His hands shook, handing over a couple of bills before he headed upstairs. Staring at the wooden floor was all he could do as he waited in the hotel room.

A gentle knock came to the door. “Come in,” was the weak reply. Arthur stepped in, and gently closed the door behind him, before he went around, locking the doors, and closing the blinds. The bed creaked as Arthur sat down, and John flinched, scooting away from him. A sigh escaped Arthur’s throat.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Arthur said, scratching at his cheek. “I didn’t mean t’ make it sound like . . . like I hated ya or anything like that. I just . . . ya need to be careful.”

“I have been.” John grunted. “You’re the only one that knows.”

Shaking his head, the older man pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Ya shouldn’t’ve even let me know. If I was the wrong person, it could’ve—” He took a deep breath, exhaling the smoke. “It would have ended with a noose around your neck.”

John shook his head, and fiddled with the brim of his hat. He sniffed, and wiped at his eyes with his thumbs. “Oh, well,” he murmured. “Ya don’t hate me, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Arthur grasped at his wrist. “Ya can’t tell anyone else, though. I’m being serious, Johnny.”

John thumbed at his nose. “Yeah, yeah . . . not like it’s gonna matter anyways. Not many men like me. Just gon’ have to accept it, and move on.” He glanced at Arthur, before he jerked his chin out. “You gon’ tell anyone?”

“I told you, boy, I ain’t.” He rubbed at his forehead, before abruptly ripping his handkerchief out from around his neck. “Would make me a hypocrite anyways.”

“Huh?”

Arthur rummaged through his satchel, and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He took a large swig, before he handed it off to John. “Don’t make me repeat it, boy. I know you ain’t as dumb as me an’ everyone says.”

John pursed his lips, and tossed his head back, holding back a cough as the alcohol burned down his throat. He swallowed heavily. “Can ya blame me for being surprised?” He placed the bottle on the bed between them. Arthur took another swig. “Or t’ think that this was like . . . some kind of joke?”

“It ain’t,” Arthur studied the label of the bottle. “Ain’t really somethin’ to joke about.” He thumbed at the label, his voice growing low. “I . . . when ya kissed me, I thought . . . momentarily, ya had found out and was mockin’ me, but then ya . . . well. You know.” He buried his face in the palm of his hand, suddenly looking extremely exhausted. “I thought I had made ya sick.”

John clasped a hand on Arthur’s knee. “Ya didn’t.”

The older man leaned against him, the bottle slipping through his fingers. John pressed his forehead against the side of Arthur’s head, closing his eyes.

John woke up the next morning to Arthur lying in the bed next to him. At some point in the night, they had stripped down to their union suits, and were wrapped around each other. John’s legs were tangled between Arthur’s, and Arthur’s arms were protectively wrapped around him. He was uncomfortably hot, but the thought of peeling himself away from him . . . well, it wasn’t really an entertaining thought.

He yawned, and sunk further in the bed next to Arthur. He nearly dozed off again when he heard Arthur grunt, shift, and murmur, “Sorry.” John’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he rubbed at the corner of his eyes, pressing his nose against Arthur’s throat. He didn’t feel anything hard pressing up against him.

“What for?” he murmured in return, pushing the covers further down his hips.

Arthur shrugged. “Everything, I guess?” he turned his head, and coughed. “How we ended up like this. Feel like I made ya feel guilty, or some shit—”

“Shut up,” John snorted in return, headbutting against his chest. “It ain’t like that. Ain’t even gotta t’ be like that. Just because we’re both like that don’t mean anything.” Arthur tightened his grip on John, tucking his chin on the top of John’s head. “It really don’t.”

“Guess not.” They continued to lay in each other’s grasp, and, well, there was nothing really . . . weird about it to John. They felt . . . it was reassuring, to say the least. Knowing that there was someone else like them. That it wasn’t just some sort of horror story that people whispered at night.

However, it couldn’t last forever.

Arthur untangled himself from John’s grip, and slowly sat up, letting out a yawn. John raised an eyebrow at him, and Arthur patted him on the side. “C’mon. Dutch will be worried if we’re gone too long.”

Reluctantly, John uncurled from his spot on the bed, and began to get dressed.

A month had passed since John and Arthur’s awkward heart to heart. The gang had changed, they had gotten a couple new members within that time, and it was beginning to feel . . . crowded. John and Arthur started to spend more and more time away from camp (separately, not together, of course) as they could not stand the constant feeling of eyes on them. They thought camp had been bad before, when it had been so small that if they were absent for too long it would have been noticed, but now was just . . . unbearable.

John sat on his bedroll, watching as the women cleaned the tables and picked up the mess that the men had made around camp. He glanced towards Arthur’s tent, sighing when he saw it abandoned. Things had not changed that much between them, but the truth had come out more and more.

John was slightly jealous at the fact that Arthur had experiences that he hadn’t—that there had been a boy in Arthur’s life once, when he was young, way before John joined them. But, when Arthur had to pack up and move, he had to leave him behind. He didn’t know what happened to the boy, but from the glossy look that had appeared on Arthur’s face, he knew it wasn’t good.

“Hello, Mister Marston.”

He raised his head, surprised he hadn’t noticed the shadow that had fallen over him. He nodded to the women, named Abigail Roberts. She had come back with Uncle one night while Arthur and John had been gone, and when they returned it had already been decided that she was going to be coming with them. For some odd reason, she seemed to have taken an interest in him, and he had no idea why. Arthur always teased him about his ugly mug, and even most prostitutes turned their head away from him. So, seeing a woman take interest in him, well . . . He wished that he wasn’t queer.

“Hello, Miss Roberts,” he said, finally noticing that she had a basket placed on her hips. He spotted his union suit, and a few other of his clothes inside of it. Holding back a sigh, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “What can I do for you?”

She shifted on her feet. “Well—I—” she stopped, clearing her throat. “Well, Mister Marston, I must really thank you and Mister Morgan for being so kind t’ me. I know that havin’ another mouth t’ feed isn’t really ideal, but I’m glad that you two have made me feel comfortable. So, I—” She stopped, looking from her basket to John, then blushed deeply. “I washed all your clothes for ya, and patched them up. As a thank you.”

He blinked. “Well . . . thank you. I appreciate it.” He rose to his feet to take the basket, ignoring the way her face deepened to a cherry red as their fingers brushed. It was honestly kind of silly. He wondered if that’s why he preferred men more, there wasn’t a constant show of emotions.

“Well, of course,” she replied, smoothing her skirt and watching as John began to pack his clothes away in his trunk. He glanced under his arm to see her still standing there, rocking on her heels. Slowly, he leaned back, looking up at her with a raised eyebrow. “Well—if there’s anything else I can do for you—”

“Continue pullin’ your weight around here, and you’ll be fine, miss,” he replied. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish for a few seconds, before the sound of hooves entered the camp. He glanced past her to see Arthur riding in, and rose. “Excuse me.”

“Of course.” He barely heard it escape her lips, and he brushed past her. Arthur raised his gaze, and their eyes met. Arthur jerked his head towards John’s horse, signaling for him to get on. His breath hitched, and he nodded, heading over to his horse.

They rode out of camp, and were halfway down the rode when Arthur asked, “How that new horse treatin’ ya?”

The mealy chestnut Belgian shifted beneath John, not quite having the stamina to keep up with the Fox Trotter. “Fine enough,” he replied, patting Boris’ neck. “I miss Peach though. She was a good horse. But he’ll do.” Arthur nodded, and slowed Boadicea down a bit so they rode side by side. Briefly, Arthur reached his hand out between their horses, his palm up. John reached out, and they intertwined their fingers for a moment.

Arthur cleared his throat, hurriedly lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag from it. “See that Miss Roberts has taken an interest in ya.” John tensed, jerking his head away and thumbed at his nose. Was this why they were riding out? To talk about Miss Roberts sudden interest in him?

“Yeah,” John scratched at his forehead. “She’s a sweet gal, but I ain’t . . . you know. Kind of wish she’d get attached to someone else. Like Bill.” Coyotes yipped as they ran across the plains. Arthur watched them with vague interest, but didn’t pull out his rifle.

Arthur snorted. “She deserves better than Bill.” He glanced at John, as he took another drag. Then he flicked it at the ground. “You know . . . it wouldn’t hurt t’ date her.” John yanked back on Boris’ reins, and the horse whinnied, tossing his head and stomping his hooves. Arthur brought Boadicea to a stop, turning her around and raising an eyebrow. “John?”

“What ya mean?” John’s throat felt like it was closing up. “I can’t do that. I’d be cheating.”

That earned him a roll of his eyes. “It’s not cheating if I tell ya t’ do it. ‘Sides, people are gonna wonder if ya don’t go after her. Practically everyone is. You’re going to need to be able to hide who you are, John.” He brought Boadicea up next to Boris, offering the man a cig, but John just kept staring Arthur down.

“Arthur. Ya don’t understand.” John ran his hand through his hair, pressing his hat to his chest. “She’ll want t’ have sex, ya know, and I won’t be able to give it t’ her. Any time I’ve ever . . .” he blushed. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t fucking admitting this. “I can’t . . . perform. She’ll know. Ya keep tellin’ me to hide who I am, an’ if ya want to keep this secret, it’ll be better if I don’t do that.”

Arthur blinked, let out a sigh, and bowed his head, his hat obscuring his gaze. John grew nervous, and went to reach out to touch his knee, when Arthur raised his head. “All right, I get it, Johnny. Let’s just forget about it, yeah?” John nodded in agreement, and the two began their ride again.

John raised an eyebrow as they pulled up to the same shack where John had kissed him the first time. “The hell we doing here, Arthur?” Arthur climbed off of Boadicea, and began to head inside. Letting out a sigh, John hopped down as well, and followed him inside. Only once the door swung closed did Arthur pull John to him by his bandana, and placed a chaste kiss to his lips.

John tensed briefly, before slowly relaxing, and grabbing him by the biceps. He hadn’t expected life to turn into this, to fall in love with Arthur and dream of him. But around two weeks ago, the thought seemed to have struck them at the same time, that they couldn’t just be friends with the knowledge that they were the same. They ride together, they’d die together, there was no other way around it. Might as well seal it.

Slowly, his hands ran up the back of Arthur’s neck, and allowed himself to be pushed into the wall. John gasped, and ground against Arthur’s thigh. The man chuckled against his mouth, and rubbed at the corner of his mouth as he pulled away. “Calm down, boy. We ain’t there yet.”

“Then why we here?” John snapped back.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, before he picked up John by wrapping his arms beneath his ass. John flushed a deep color, tugging his hat down to cover his face. He hated that they were the same height, but Arthur could carry him like he was a small child. John let out a small ‘oomph’ as he was tossed down onto an old, rickety cot. Before he could gain his bearings, Arthur crawled on top of him, pressing his body against his. John looked up, his eyes going wide, and Arthur stroked his cheek. “Can’t I spend time with ya?” Arthur asked, kissing at his cheek. “We haven’t been alone lately.”

John went to raise his arms, but Arthur pinned him down his wrists, and stole a kiss. John snorted. “Ain’t like we couldn’t have just wandered a bit away from camp—”

“John, I hate t’ say it, but I really am dating a moron,” Arthur replied, shaking his head. John pursed his lips into a line. “We can’t afford to get caught. Not now, not ever, John. If we—if we’re gon’ do this, and I know ya want too, we got to be discreet.” John refused to look at Arthur, crossing his arms when his wrists were released. Arthur gently placed his hand on the side of his face, turning his head to face him. “John,” he started, little fear and desperation in his voice, “Can’t lose you.”

This time, it was John’s turn to cup his face. “You ain’t,” he said, and shook his head. “I don’ think it’d be that bad, Arthur, if Dutch or Hosea found out. We’re like sons to them, ya know? They’d love us regardless.”

Arthur looked panicked, and he shook his head rapidly. “No, John, absolutely not. We—you might think that, but this is something ya don’t want to fuck with. You don’t want to chance it. Ya want to be killed by the man you thought of as a father? You want to look him in the eyes, watch as he draws on you, and realize that there are just some things that people won’t understand?”

“Jesus!” John gasped, feeling Arthur’s fingernails digging into his biceps involuntarily. “Calm down, Arthur.”

The man’s grip loosened, but the panicked look did not leave. “John. Ya gotta—ya gotta promise me that you will not tell anyone. Especially not Hosea and Dutch.”

He cupped the man’s face. “I promise I won’t, okay? I don’t think their reactions would be that bad, but if you don’t want me too, I won’t. Promise, Arthur. You die, I die. Like I said.”

The man released a breath, and he slumped against John, pressing his face against his throat. “You don’t know that,” Arthur whispered, holding John close. “You can’t do things without proof, especially when it means life or death.”

John closed his eyes, and sighed, burying himself against Arthur’s side. “Sorry, sorry . . .” he whispered, kissing the man’s cheek. Arthur looked up, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. John’s eyes fluttered shut. “Sure, ya don’t want to go further?”

“You ain’t a whore, Marston. Ain’t gonna treat ya like one.” John’s eyebrows furrowed. He wasn’t suggesting that at all, where the hell did he get that idea? Nonetheless, John took off his coat, and draped it over the two of them in a makeshift blanket, falling asleep in each other’s embrace.

Dutch was a smart man. John trusted his judgment, and often thought that his plans were genius, despite the many times Hosea and Arthur argued otherwise. But now? Dutch was a fucking moron.

They had to leave their camp outside of Colton, rush to pack, and leave before the law came. Dutch, foolishly, had listened to Davey Callander, and the information Callander had gotten ended up being bad. Still, they had enough money, and that was enough for John.

At the moment, John, Mac Callander, and Dutch were riding into the nearby town of Willowdale. Dutch and Mac were chatting the entire time, Mac trying to apologize for his brother’s mistakes. John couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur, and returning back to camp. The older man had been shot during the shootout, and had even got bitten by one of the law dogs. He kept thinkin’ of the man he had seen when he was nine who had died an hour after being bitten by a dog. If Arthur died . . .

John shuddered at the thought. Mac was chortling. “Well, how was Davey t’ know, Dutch? Not like you did any fine investigating yourself. Can’t blame Davey when ya know how he is.” John was inclined to agree.

“Yes, well, however, I do expect people to be completely honest with me, and Davey had not been,” Dutch replied. “He did not thoroughly explain to me anything.”

Mac puffed up. “Yeah? And? You was still supposed to double check, Dutch. I never known ya to take anyone’s words at face value. Admit it, Dutch, ya went soft—”

“Mr. Callander.” The Count stopped, and John had to hurriedly bring Boris to a halt to not run into the smaller horse. “I suggest you stop while you are ahead.”

John flicked his cigarette at Mac, and endured the hateful look the older man sent him. Nonetheless, Mac shut up, and the rest of the ride to Willowdale was quiet. John had his head bowed, thinking of all the shit he’d have to do once he got back to camp when he suddenly heard a voice boom out over a murmuring crowd. “We are here today to see these men hang for their crimes.” All three of them stopped, and John raised his head, seeing two men standing on top of the platform, one shaking and sobbing, while the other stood defiant. “They have performed crimes against nature, and it is my complete honor to see these two men pay for the sickness they have brought to this town.” The crowd cheered, and John’s heart plummeted into his stomach. He remembered when he was young asking Arthur about what that charge meant, and he had thought it was a joke. He bit down on his lip, his eyes darting to Dutch when he heard the man laugh.

“This is the one thing the government and I agree on,” Dutch said, his eyes not leaving the men on the platform. “Crime against nature indeed, you’d ought to be sick to do something like that.” Mac didn’t say anything, and neither did John. He really hoped that he wasn’t letting his emotions show. Dutch glanced at them, and said, “Don’t you agree, boys?” John nodded, and Mac let out a grunt.

John lifted his gaze when he heard the defiant man begin to speak. “Ollie,” he called to his lover, and the trembling man, Ollie, looked up. “Look at me, Ollie. Everything is gonna be okay, ya hear me? Just keep lookin’ me in the eyes, love.” Ollie sobbed, but did not break the man’s gaze.

“Anton,” Ollie sobbed out, and it truly broke John’s heart. “I-I’m scared, I don’t want to die.”

“You’ll be okay,” Anton replied, his voice soft. “Remember what I said, all right? When you wake up, I’m going to be waiting for you on the other side. We’ll be free, Ollie.” Ollie gave Anton a weak smile, before he cried out in pain as the sheriff slammed the butt of his pistol against the back of the man’s head. Anton cried out. “Leave him alone, you asshole! Leave him alone!”

“Quiet, you!” the sheriff replied, and Anton was met with a rock to the forehead. John really wished he was alone, he would save them, he didn’t care what it’d take. John’s heart was thumping loudly in his chest, as he watched Ollie and Anton not break their gaze from one another. John flinched when the sheriff pulled the lever, and Ollie dropped, his neck brutally snapping.

Anton let out a shuttering gasp, tears spilling down his face. John looked up in time for their gaze to meet. His heart raced faster as he realized that Anton saw right threw him, and knew what he was. Anton glanced to Dutch and Mac, before he locked eyes with John once more. He straightened his back, tears still spilling down his cheeks, and he did not break his gaze as the sheriff pulled the lever for him. Anton struggled for a bit, before his body went still.

“Well, wasn’t that a treat?” Dutch said, putting the Count into motion. “Looks like we’ll fit right into this town, boys.”

A shiver ran down his back.

John sat up in his tent, his heart racing. He could hear Arthur’s screams echoing throughout his ears, and he put his head between his knees, taking deep breaths, despite the fact the image of Arthur’s neck snapping played through his head over and over again. But he wasn’t quite sure what was worse—watching Arthur die, or seeing Dutch pull the lever.

Once he calmed himself a bit, he glanced towards Abigail. She had requested to move into his tent, had told everyone she felt much more comfortable around him, and now everyone thought that there was some . . . romantic interest between them. It annoyed John a little bit, because he no longer had privacy, and people were assuming shit about him that he had no control over. Not like he could really tell Abigail to get the fuck out—people would be wondering why he wouldn’t want a gorgeous woman sleeping next to him, and he’s really been trying to follow Arthur’s wishes.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and left his tent. The entire camp was asleep, and there was only ever one person on guard. He glanced inside Arthur’s tent, and he let out a small, shaky breath when he realized that the man was on guard.

He headed to where the lookout spot, his entire body shaking. He had to take a couple of moments to stop and steady himself. Arthur stood with his back to camp, a repeater slung over his shoulders, clearly not anticipating anyone coming by. John paused, leaning against a tree, closing his eyes, before stepping forward. A tree branch snapped beneath his bare feet, and he ended up with the barrel of the repeater in his face.

Arthur frowned, and lowered the repeater. “The hell ya doin’ up, John—” Arthur stumbled backwards as John wrapped his arms around his chest, and tucked his head beneath the man’s chin. There was a brief pause, before Arthur reciprocated the action. “You okay?”

Shuddering, he shook his head. “Today, when I went into town with Dutch and Mac,” he murmured, “we witnessed two men like us getting hanged. Dutch said that it was something they deserved, and . . . and there was one man who kept trying to reassure the other. Before he died, he looked at me, and seemed to know what I was.” The leaves above them ruffled, the wind howling as it swept through the hollow. “I dreamt that they were us. That Dutch was pullin’ the lever.”

“Johnny . . .” Arthur tried to push him back, so he could get a better look at his face, but John just tightened his grip. He sighed, and ran a hand through John’s dirty hair. “I’m sorry, John. I tried t’ tell ya . . . ya understand now why I was so worried? I couldn’t watch that happen t’ ya.”

“Sorry.” Moving away, he rubbed at his eyes and stared up at Arthur, cupping his face. “I just . . . never had seen that side of Dutch. I feel like we should cut and run.”

“We’re safer in numbers.”

“Not when them discovering us could lead to the noose.” He took Arthur’s hands, and the man’s fingers were cold. He rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand, wishing there was something he could do to convince him to go.

Arthur leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead. “We’ll be okay. Promise you.” He then cupped John’s cheek, rubbing his thumb across it. “You should go back t’ bed. Don’t need Abigail waking up and comin’ to find you.”

He tensed at the mention of her, and scowled. “I hate that woman. Ain’t done nothing but made shit harder for the two of us.” Arthur gave him a pointed look, and John flinched. “But fine. I’ll go.”

“Good boy,” Arthur stepped back, picking up his repeater. “Like I said, Johnny. We’ll be all right.”

John just nodded, and made his way back to camp, sinking down onto his bedroll. As he laid down with his back to Abigail, he heard a small snuffling. “John?” she murmured, “You okay?”

“Just had t’ go take care of something,” he responded, scrunching his eyes closed. He forced himself not to tense as he felt her cold fingers touching his nape.

“Oh. Well. Good night, John.”

Their camp in Wolf Valley turned out to be better and sturdier than most that they had before. To this day, John still missed this camp the most. It was in a valley, with only one point of entrance, unless someone wanted to die by jumping off of the cliff above. Trees obscured the view from above, and with how loud and windy most nights got, Arthur and John could move around without fear.

They were in Wolf Valley for nearly a year. It had very much become home, with Arthur and him finding nooks and crannies where they could enjoy each other.

However, Arthur still had not made any moves.

John kept his gaze on Arthur, who was bent over a map with Hosea and Dutch by his sides. They were apparently planning some sort of train robbery, and had been able to convince the guards on the train to let them rob it and they’d get a small cut of the profits. John didn’t think it was a good idea, but the prospect of vast amounts of money seemed to override any common sense. Abigail was chatting to him about something mundane, about how some of the men here were nicer than others, and she had not quite expected it from a gang of outlaws. To be fair, Mary-Beth and Karen were sitting next to him as well, listening to her. But her sole focus seemed to be on John, and he would occasionally give her a smile, to reassure her that he was not ignoring her.

_Women_, he thought as she blushed and briefly turned her head. He continued to pick at his skin, scanning the camp. Sean was sharpening his knife, and Miss Grimshaw was doing some of the chores. Pearson was busy getting the stew ready, and Strauss seemed completely oblivious to it all.

Picking at the fraying ends of his jeans, he was not surprised when Arthur stepped back from the table, and said, “John and I will go talk with the guards, make sure everything’s gonna be all right on their end. Work out last minute kinks.” Dutch waved a hand, rubbing at his chin as his eyes continuously scanned the map.

Hosea smiled at Arthur. “Be safe.” John rose to his feet, wishing a quick goodbye to the women before he mounted Boris. He and Arthur headed out side by side, such a common occurrence now that the gang barely even blinked. John was buzzing. Arthur didn’t give them an answer to when they’d be back, so they would have plenty of time to themselves. They’d probably camp somewhere, somewhere further up Wolf Valley but just as hidden and well-guarded.

He glanced to Arthur, studying the structure of his face, and the man’s work-carved body. He had been privileged to the feeling of Arthur’s body pressed against his, but he wanted _more_. Maybe, _finally_, tonight it’d happen.

They rode into town, just like they said, and found the guards at the hotel. In a secluded corner of the room, they talked in low voices, running over what was going to happen and how much the guards were going to get. They sat by each other, their thighs brushing. However, Arthur paid no attention to him the entire night, didn’t even so much as glance at him as they mounted their horses and began to head back.

John’s heart skipped a beat when they separated from the main trail and began to head towards one of their hideouts. They arrived at the cave entrance, lit their lanterns, and headed inside. Arthur set to starting a fire, while John rearranged the furs on the cot they stole. He inhaled sharply as Arthur came up behind him, wrapping his arms around his chest and pressing a kiss to his throat. “How ya feeling?” Arthur murmured.

“Good,” he replied, leaning back to his embrace and turning his head back so he could meet the man’s lips. Arthur hummed, reaching up and grabbing him by the jaw, slowly licking at each other. He pulled away, slightly out of breath, his lips red and puffy. “I . . . I feel ready t’ take the next seem, Arthur.” He felt the man freeze before he left a trail of kisses down his neck.

“John . . .”

John swatted at the man’s hands. “Don’t try and tell em that you don’t want t’ treat me like a whore, or that I ain’t ready. It’s been over a God damn year, Arthur. I _need_ you.” He twisted in his arms, draping his arms over his neck and stroking at the short hairs at the man’s nape, resting their foreheads together.

Arthur let out a sigh, and grunted a bit. “I’ll have to get something out of my satchel, then.” John picked at the skin on his thumb, anxiously chewing on his bottom lip before his arms slipped back around Arthur’s throat. Arthur backed him up so his calves hit the cot, and gently pushed him so he was lying on his back. They shared a brief, vast kiss, before Arthur murmured, “If this ever gets too much, let me know.”

Gently pressing on his shoulders, John forced Arthur to lean back so they could look eye-to-eye. “I want you to want this, too,” John murmured.

“I do want this. I just don’t want you to push yourself.”

“I’ve waited an entire year, Arthur. I’m ready.” He curled his toes inside his boots, and Arthur nodded, leaning down to kiss his forehead. They slowly worked out of their clothes, John practically whining as he ran his fingers over the expanse of skin, tracing the elevated scars, and bending to kiss one of the scars on his throat. Arthur shuddered above him, and John ran his fingers down the man’s back, burying his hands beneath the man’s trousers and grabbing at the large globes, jerking their bodies more forcefully together.

Arthur pressed his forehead against his chest, and let out a shuddering moan, lightly grinding their cocks together. “Fuck, John . . .”

“I wouldn’t be teasing you if you just got on with it,” John snickered, and laughed when it earned him a light thump to the shoulder. Since they were both thoroughly stripped, Arthur began to kiss John again, but a little more passionate was behind it than before. They slowly ground their bodies together, and John barely caught the sound of Arthur opening the tin. “What’d ya grab?”

“Something called Vaseline,” Arthur muttered, pressing a kiss to the scar on John’s chin. “Some shop was selling it, said it was useful for healing cuts and burns. Thought it’d work better than wasting pomade.”

John flushed of all color, and hid his face behind his forehead. “All right. I ain’t gonna think about ya buying that. Get on with it.”

Arthur chuckled, and continued to kiss and lick at his throat, while he gathered a good amount of Vaseline onto his finger. He nudged John’s legs apart with his knees, and his index finger swiped along his hole. John tensed, his hands tangling tightly into Arthur’s hair. He whined when Arthur pulled away, wanting to distract himself from the pain he was going to endure. Their foreheads rested together, his breath tickling John’s facial hair. “Darlin’, you’re going to have to relax. It’s gonna hurt a lot more if ya don’t.”

John shuddered, and nodded, forcing himself to relax as Arthur rubbed gentle circles on his hip. John took a deep breath, and nodded to Arthur, situating himself further down on the cot. Arthur kissed him, and pushed his finger in. His breath hitched, and he squirmed a bit, kneading his hands into the older man’s shoulders. His head dropped back against the cot, and he laid there for a while, getting used to the feeling. Arthur leaned down, pressing their foreheads together, and muttered, “I’m gonna add another one, now.” John grunted in response, and his fists clenched into the skins beneath him.

“Shit,” John grunted, spreading his legs wider. It was painful, and slow to adjust. Occasionally, Arthur’s thick fingers brushed against a part inside of him that made his cock twitch and body shudder. Arthur moved further down the bed, his tongue swiping up the beads of precum that were starting to dry along John’s stomach. “I-I think . . . Shit!” he yelped, as Arthur suckled at the head of John’s cock, looking up at him through his eyelashes. “I think . . . I think . . . I’m ready.”

“Not yet,” Arthur retorted, and added another finger.

“Jesus!” His legs wrapped around Arthur, squeezing him tightly. Arthur chuckled, his breath blowing against the drying saliva on his stomach, sending a chill to John’s bones. Arthur continued to thrust his fingers in, spreading them wide and rotating them. John buried one hand in Arthur’s hair, while the other came up to cover his face. “Fucking Christ . . .”

Pulling his hands away when Arthur pulled his fingers out, John finally looked down at the other’s hardened cock. He had felt it pressed against him, had seen it while it was limp many a time, but seeing it hard and arching up towards Arthur’s stomach—

“Fuck.”

That earned him a snort, as Arthur lathered his cock up with Vaseline. He draped his body over John, gently pressing a kiss to his lips. “Having second thoughts?”

John scowled, reaching a hand back to smack Arthur on the ass. “Get on with it.”

He tossed his head back as he felt Arthur slowly push in, his hands scrambling for purchase and gripping at the sides of the cot, the pelts that were beneath him. Arthur shuddered, kissing at the corner of John’s mouth before their lips met. One of John’s hands buried in Arthur’s hair as the man slowly began to move, rolling and rocking his hips. Arthur bit a harsh bruise on John’s collarbone, before he leaned back to get a better angle. John scrunched his eyes closed for a moment, before he forced them open.

He was enraptured by what he saw.

“You all right?” Arthur murmured, reaching up to cup John’s cheek.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right,” he responded, clearing his throat.

Arthur’s skin was thinly glossed by a layer of sweat. The pomade he had used on his hair was slowly wearing off, long strands of hair were falling into his eyes. His body was one that John could only dream off—fit, thick, he could probably crack John’s skull open with his bicep if he really wanted too.

It was hard to believe, but this body was _his_. His to worship, his to kiss and love, to take care of after a mission gone wrong. Arthur was _his_, no one else’s, just like John was Arthur’s.

John reached up, cupping Arthur’s cheeks and dragging him down for a kiss. It felt like a dream, and when he pulled away, to see Arthur staring back down at him, he knew it was not one.

“C’mere.” He wrapped his arms around Arthur’s throat, practically smothering their bodies together. Arthur grunted, and ran a hand through John’s hair, pausing momentarily to adjust his angle before he resumed.

John tossed his head back, and felt Arthur’s teeth rake at his throat. God help him.

They returned to camp a day later, both happy and satiated. Their horses were both covered in animal pelts, and animals hung from the sides of their saddles. John was already thinking about when they would be able to escape to the wilderness again. Sure, his ass hurt and his back was sore, but he had never felt as in love with Arthur as he did when he stared up at him, seeing the man’s walls come down. It felt like . . . well, that they had made a different kind of connection then.

They reentered camp, dismounting and gathering their kills, not realizing the commotion was going on. Pearson was absent from the butcher’s table, and they just shrugged as they donated their items. It was only then that Miss Grimshaw stormed up to the pair, and struck John across the cheek. He grunted, and pressed the palm of his hand against his cheek. Arthur’s eyes were wide like quarters, and asked, “Miss Grimshaw?”

She pointed a finger at John. “You have a lot to answer for, mister.”

“The hell you talkin’ about?” John snapped in return, clenching and then unclenching his fists. Miss Grimshaw looked furious, and jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards Dutch’s tent, where most of the gang was gathered around. John and Arthur exchanged looks, before they slowly headed towards the man’s tent.

Davey sneered as soon as his eyes landed on John. “Look who finally decided to return!” he shouted, and John stopped in his tracks as the gang turned their gaze on him. Davey called over his shoulder. “Dutch!”

“Send him in.”

The gang stepped to the side, and John found himself moving towards the tent, with Arthur following close behind. When he entered the tent, he heard Davey say, “Not you,” and he glanced over his shoulder to see Arthur being forced to wait outside of the tent before the flaps closed. John turned around, his heart leaping into his throat as he saw Hosea, Abigail, and Dutch waiting in the tent.

Abigail had tear streaks on her face, and chewed on her bottom lip, wringing Hosea’s handkerchief in her hands.

“Sit down, son,” Dutch said, patting the spot on the cot next to him.

John sat down, eyeing them carefully. He took note of how Abigail would not meet his eyes. “What’s going on?”

Hosea sighed. “Abigail, here, is pregnant.”

Silence enveloped the tent. John’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he looked from Hosea, to Dutch, to Abigail. He narrowed his eyes at Abigail. “Okay. And?”

“Tone, boy,” Dutch nudged him. John grit his teeth, as Dutch straightened himself. “She says you’re the father.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Abigail sobbed, and Hosea rubbed her back gently. Dutch scowled at him, disapprovingly. He cleared his throat and shifted on the cot. “Sorry, I-I didn’t mean t’ laugh, but . . . Miss Roberts and I, we ain’t ever been together like that.”

He wanted to snarl at her when she sobbed out, “I told you he would say that Mr. Matthews.”

His eyes snapped to Hosea. “You gonna believe her over me?”

“She knows who she’s been with, John.”

“Clearly not, cause she ain’t been with me.”

“Watch yourself, John,” Dutch snapped, thumping the man on the back of the head.

He tensed, and puffed up. “I ain’t gonna sit here and let you all say that I’m the father of this baby when I _ain’t_. I ain’t had sex with her, I ain’t _interested _in her.”

“You share a tent, John,” Dutch snorted, lighting a cigar.

“Not anymore she ain’t!” John spat. “We was sharin’ because she said the rest of the men here were gross, and that she trusted me. I _ain’t lying_.” He looked Abigail in the eye, and she immediately turned her gaze away from him. “Tell the truth, Abigail! I ain’t the father of that baby, and _you know it_.”

Abigail swallowed, and shook her head. “I told you, Mr. Matthews.”

John shot up from the chair. “This is ridiculous! You gonna make me take care of a baby that ain’t mine?”

Hosea sighed. “You must own up to what you’ve done, John. You were taught that there were circumstances to that. Take care of your child.”

“It _ain’t mine_,” he snarled, before he turned and stormed out of the tent, immediately heading for his horse. A couple people called after him, but he ignored them. “C’mon, Boris,” he muttered, immediately turning him around. The wind bit at his skin, and he didn’t flinch when twigs slapped him in the face. His hands clenched at the reins, and the leather began to dig into his skin. He didn’t stop running until he got to Willowdale, and he paused outside of town, bending over the saddle, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

_Take care of your child_.

_I told you he would do this Mr. Matthews_.

He dug his hands into his hair, tearing out large clumps of hair. This was a joke. It had to be a fucking joke.

He covered his face with his hat, and he screamed.

John stared into the flickering fire, his cheeks hot and ruddy, and barely moved as he heard approaching hooves. He sniffed, and thumbed at the corners of his eyes again as the newcomer dismounted.

“Took a while t’ find you, Johnny.”

“Go away, Arthur,” he murmured, burying his face in his knees. Arthur, of course, did not listen, and came to sit down next to him. He did not touch him, gave them both enough space. John’s voice was hoarser than usual, and the back of his throat burned from all the snot that had dribbled down it.

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Arthur replied, his head tilted up to look at the stars. They sat there for the longest time in silence, the fire crackling and the sound of Boris and Boadicea whinnying at each other in greeting, before they began to graze.

John knew that Arthur would not talk if John did not want too. That he would just sit here in complete and utter silence until John either broke down, or he had cooled down enough to head back into camp.

John clutched at his hair, tugging long strands out of the roots. “I don’t fuckin’ get it!” he shouted, suddenly scrambling to his feet and pacing. Arthur watched him with a raised eyebrow. “Why me? Out of all the members in the gang, why me?” He stopped by the fire, and threw his hands up in the air. “I ain’t even fucked her! Ain’t even got close t’ her like that! She’s been with Bill, with Javier, with _Dutch_, any one of ‘em would be more believable than me!”

Arthur shrugged. “She does like ya a whole lot. Gets all moony-eyed at ya.”

John glared. “But I ain’t _fucked her_.”

“The gang don’t know that,” Arthur rose to his feet, and head over to him, cupping his face. “You ain’t gotta be a parent to a kid that ain’t yours.”

John’s heart flipped. “But how am I gonna convince ‘em that it ain’t mine?” John leaned heavily into Arthur’s hands, gently grasping at the men’s wrist, before his body fell against his, tucking his head beneath the man’s chin. Arthur lowered his hands from his face to his waist, pressing his cheek against the top of John’s head.

“You can’t,” Arthur murmured, “She’s got ‘em convinced that you’re the dad. Just . . .” He sighed. “It ain’t right. But the kid truly ain’t yours, and you’re not with her, it ain’t your responsibility to take care of it. Just . . . I’ll stand by ya. Maybe if she realizes that you ain’t gonna back down, she’ll back down at well.”

He buried his face against the soft fabric of Arthur’s blue flannel shirt. It smelt like sweat, gun oil, and coal. He scrunched his nose up a bit. Arthur must not have washed it since the train robbery. “She went t’ Dutch and Hosea. They ain’t gonna back down, even with you agreein’ with me.”

“Just gotta stand strong, John.” He ran a hand through the man’s hair, soothing the tension that had begun to take over the entire man’s body. “Stand strong and firm.”

Abigail moved her bedroll out of John’s tent, per his request. She was sleeping with the other women now, thankfully. She still maintained the idea that John was the father of her baby. Playing cards with the men ended up being a huge mistake, as one of them just had to bring up, “Ya know, it ain’t so bad that Abigail is the mother of your kid, Johnny.”

“Shut up, Uncle,” he spat, the cards crinkling a bit in his hand. Mac arched an eyebrow, Bill snorted, and Arthur remained impassive. The newest member, Javier, was sitting in between John and Arthur, studying what they were doing and the interactions. Hosea said listening to how they talk and immersing himself would help the lad learn English faster. John didn’t think so, but Hosea knew better.

_Obviously_.

Uncle motioned his arms outwards, and scoffed. “It’s just the truth, Johnny!” he said, “You could’ve been stuck with Karen, or some other random lady as the mother. She’s pretty an’ she’s smart. Cheer up, kid.”

John grit his teeth, jerking his head away and staring at the ground. He felt Javier’s gaze on him, but he refrained from acknowledging the man’s presence. “I can’t cheer up when the kid _ain’t mine_.” His gaze jerked to Bill. “_You_ are more likely the kid’s father than I am. Hell, any one of ya at this table could be the kid’s parent. I ain’t been with her. Just ‘cause we shared a tent don’t mean _shit_.”

Mac rolled his eyes. “Nobody believes that flannel, Marston, ya might as well drop it. If ya don’t want to be the kid’s parent, then that’s your issue. Don’t know how well it’s gonna settle over with Hosea and Dutch, but that’s your issue—”

“Why won’t any of ya just believe me when I say that the kid’s not mine?” John snapped. “You know me. I been here longer than any of you. If I make a mistake, I own up to it, don’t I?” The table fell silent, nobody really saying anything or moving. “Fuck this.” John rose to his feet, slapping his cards down on the table and making to leave. Javier slid over and picked up his cards, studying them. “Don’t know why I even bother.”

He stormed away; his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his nails cut into his skin. John entered the forest that surrounded the camp, and sat down, burying his head in his hands. He was frustrated, he was pissed off, and this place no longer felt like home. He felt like he was trapped, like he had fallen through some ice and couldn’t get his way out from beneath it. He was going to drown, if he did not find some way to break through this. He chewed on his bottom lip, tearing at the skin there, and he rubbed his index finger against the sore. The only thing really keeping him here at this point was Arthur.

Twigs snapped beneath him, and he briefly glanced over his shoulder. Arthur stood a little way back, and John could not see the look on his face, just the outline of the man’s body. Arthur approached, and John turned away, leaning against Arthur when the man sat down next to him. “I can’t do this anymore, Arthur.”

“You have too.”

Rage bubbled up inside of him, but he did not move from Arthur’s side. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one that is going to be expected to raise a fuckin’ kid.” Arthur reached over, clasping a hand over his knee and squeezing tightly. “If I get told to just cheer up one more _fucking_ time, I’m gonna scream.”

Arthur let out a small sigh, and didn’t say anything. John sat, digging his teeth into his cheek. “Look, I . . .” Arthur sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t like this either. I don’t like what they’re forcing you to do, since we both know you ain’t interested in her. But we can’t do nothing. Nothing will convince her that she’s wrong.”

Leaping to his feet, John tugged Arthur up, and said, “Let’s leave, then.”

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he yanked his wrists out of John’s grip. His heart plummeted into his stomach. “John.”

“What do we have left for us here, Arthur?” It was a plea he knew was falling on deaf ears. Arthur’s face was closing off, and the man was shaking his head. John gestured wildly around them. “Seriously, what? What do we have here? Dutch runs you ragged; treats you like you’re only good to take care of the gang. How much sleep have you gotten this past month alone? If we’re ever discovered—if we ever slip up—we’re dead. We’re straight _dead_ and it’s clear now that they don’t care. I’m sitting here, screaming about how the kid _ain’t mine_, and they act like their head’s full of cotton.” Arthur’s lips were pressed into a thin line, his entire body guarded and his hands on his hips. “We’ve got nothing left here, Arthur.”

The older man left out a sigh that seemed to drain all energy from him. Arthur scratched at his forehead, and John’s heart was pounding so hard he was scared it’d pound right out of his chest. “They’re family, John. They . . .” Arthur shook his head, his arms going limp by his side. “They saved us, John. Saved _you_. If they hadn’t come across ya when they did, you’d be dead. You just want to abandon all that?”

John swallowed. “I don’t know what else to do, Arthur.”

“We just have to see this through. Just have to . . . keep our heads up, not lose sight,” Arthur said, reaching out to touch John’s cheek. John jerked away, his arms wrapping around himself, gripping at his shoulders. “John?”

“I can’t believe this,” John chuckled, his eyes watering a bit. He forced the tears back. “I really . . . really can’t, Arthur. We could run, we could leave, and you . . . chose this? Living in fear?”

“We can’t just abandon them, John.”

“No,” John retorted, standing up straight. “_You_ can’t.”

John and Arthur did not speak for nearly a month. John ended up breaking down, and approached Arthur one night, requesting him to join him on a ride into town. John apologized for what he said, but did not mention any change of mind in wanting to leave the gang. Arthur did not bring it up, so John left it be. The progression of Abigail’s pregnancy, and the pressure put on John by Dutch and Hosea got to him. Persistently, he and Arthur would disappear on ‘hunts’, where Arthur would try his best to console John, as John would have his breakdowns, whether violent, or solemn. Never, were their hunts questioned. John usually came back better, so Dutch and Hosea let it slide.

Looking back, John should’ve known that them leaving together so much would have caught someone’s suspicion. He just wished it hadn’t been the person it did.

Tightening the straps on Boris, John tried his best to calm his breathing. Soon, he and Arthur would be at their hideout. Arthur would remind him of what was important, how soon it would be over. Abigail would have the baby, and would therefore be distracted by it. Hell, the entire camp would. No one would pay much mind to him anymore, as long as he, occasionally, did his part.

“John?”

He tensed, straightening and turning around to come face-to-face with Abigail. Her hands cupped the bottom of her rounded stomach, and John kept his gaze averted to directly above her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“If it’s not too much to ask, would you be able to stop by the general store and get some more baby things?” she asked, her voice soft and deceiving. “I just realized we’re getting rather close to winter, and we don’t have anything for it—”

“Sure,” John interrupted, all will to fight against it leaving him. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you,” she said, clasping his hands with her own before she turned and left. John shuddered, hunching in on himself and mounting Boris. He stroked the Belgian’s mane as Arthur approached Boadicea.

“What did she want?”

“Just some things for the kid,” John murmured, lighting a cigarette. Arthur just hummed, and mounted his horse, neither noticing Dutch’s gaze on them. “Can we just . . . go? I need t’ get out of here.”

Arthur nodded, and turned Boadicea around, the two of them quickly heading out of camp. Neither paid attention to what was going on behind them, having grown so _comfortable_ and secure in their routine that it was no longer an issue. As Willowdale came into view, Arthur suddenly veered to the left, taking them deep into the forest. They reached a small clearing, and they dismounted, before stepping forward.

“Ain’t been here in a while,” Arthur murmured, clearing the leaves away with his boot. John didn’t say anything, his arms crossed over his stomach, and his head bowed. Once Arthur cleared enough, he began to build a small fire, and pulled out their bedrolls. John remained at the edge, staring down at his muddy boots.

He raised his gaze as Arthur’s shadow fell over him. Arthur cupped his face, and John leaned into it, wrapping his arms around his waist. He buried his face against the man’s shoulder. They stood like that for a long moment, John’s anxieties and anger slowly bleeding out of his body.

Tipping his head back, John pressed a kiss to Arthur’s lips. Arthur sighed softly, gently rubbing at John’s hip, kissing him back with little fervor.

John sighed against his lips, fully relaxing against Arthur’s body. Arthur was the one man who he could trust, the one man who he could rely on.

Just as John was about to tangle his hands in Arthur’s hang, a gunshot rang out in the clearing. The two jumped, pulled away, tightening their arms around each other, using one hand to pull their pistols from their gun belt. John’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he saw Dutch standing on the edge of the clearing, smoke slowly drifting away from the barrel of his Schofield.

Slowly, Dutch lowered the Schofield, and pointed it at John. “Step back, son.”

John’s eyes went wide, and he flipped his palms up, stepping away from Arthur. Arthur stepped forward, stopping and mimicking John’s previous actions when Dutch pulled out his second Schofield, aiming it at Arthur. “Dutch—”

“Quiet.” Dutch snapped. The man approached John; one Schofield constantly being pointed at Arthur. John let out a grunt as the man cracked the butt of his gun against his head, sending him careening to the floor. Blood poured down the side of his face, a cut running from his hairline to just below his eye. John pressed his hand to the side of his head, flinching as Dutch kicked his arm.

“Cannot believe this,” Dutch snarled, lowering his Schofields. He pitched at the bridge of his nose, and sent Arthur a dangerous look when the man attempted to head over to John. “My own _sons_ . . .”

“Dutch—” John began, then let out a yelp of pain as Dutch kicked him in the gut. He curled up tightly into a ball, barely registering Arthur’s cry for Dutch to stop.

“Is this why you were so adamant about the child not being yours, John?” Dutch snarled, “You ain’t even been with her, ain’t ever touched a woman. Instead, you decided to infect your brother, infect _Arthur_, with your God damn disease—”

“It ain’t like that, Dutch—” Arthur shouted, but immediately snapped his jaw shut upon Dutch turning his gaze on him.

“You’re sick, Arthur. Sick cause of _him_, both of you are _sick_.” Dutch’s lips twitched. He jerked his chin out. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you both were you stand.”

“Why don’t you?” John snarled, attempting to stand up. “You said—that day we came t’ Willowdale—you _said_ that’s the only thing men like us deserve. Why don’t you fuckin’ just, _do it then_?”

The man’s posture and demeanor flipped like a switch, suddenly his face was soft. “I love you like my own children, John. That’s why. I care about ya, but I can’t . . . this is sick. This ain’t right. Both of you, you need to stop this.”

Arthur swallowed. “Dutch—”

The man flew into a rage again. “There is no arguing with this, Arthur! You do what I say, or you leave, or you get a bullet. Don’t make me do it, son.”

John wanted to take the bullet. Wanted this to be over with, or wanted Arthur to tell Dutch that they’d just leave then. That they wouldn’t be coming back. But, of course, Arthur disappointed him. “. . . Yes, Dutch.”

John struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against a tree. Dutch looked between them. “If I see you two going off alone again, or even so much as _speak_ privately to one another, you will meet your maker.” Dutch turned his gaze onto John. The look there was far more malicious than the one he gave Arthur. John snarled in return. “As for _you_,” he said, taking a step forward, and jabbing his finger into John’s chest. “You are going to be a father t’ that kid, and you are going to _accept it._ No more arguing, no more scenes. You got it?”

John sneered in return, but did not argue. His head was pounding, his heart was aching. He knew once Dutch left, once John was to his own devices, he would lose it. Probably end up harming himself, in one way or another. But now, all he felt is rage.

Dutch turned his back to Arthur. “You are coming back to camp with me. Now.” John collapsed to the forest floor, his breath growing a little ragged as he held his side. Arthur, the obedient dog that he was, followed Dutch, his head lowered. John watched him go, and once he could not longer hear the horses, John screamed.

Arthur wouldn’t even look at him.

Any time John got close, even sat down at the same campfire, Arthur got up and disappeared. Any time John tried to follow him to talk, he suddenly felt Dutch’s gaze on him keeping him rooted in place.

To say the least, John was the most miserable he had ever been in life.

He listened as the baby cried, and as Abigail attempted to shush him. John sat on the log near the scout’s fire, lightly dragging his knife along his skin, watching the thin droplets of blood run down his arm. He pressed his wrist to his lips, tongue swiping over the cuts. He glanced to Boris, who was standing off on his own. Boadicea remained by the Count.

John closed his eyes, and rose to his feet, heading over to Boris. He ran his finger through his horse’s mane, before he slowly mounted. He heard Mac’s gentle snores as the man slept on his feet, and he was able to leave the camp unnoticed.

He kept riding, and did not look back.

The cold bit at John’s skin, and he shuddered, his face incredibly cold, wet, and sticky. He was going to die here—he knew that. He had already begun to accept it. No one would find him up here in the mountain, and he would die, unhappy.

He closed his eyes, and let out a shuttering cough. He hadn’t been able to stay away. Any man he saw, he thought they were Arthur. His heart would soar, and he’d think, for a second, that Arthur had ran away to be with him. But it never was, and the pain of not being able to at least be _near_ Arthur . . . it had him returning a year later.

Arthur would not look at him. Would only speak to him politely. Dutch had long since stopped watching them with a close gaze, and why would he? Arthur treated John like he was a stranger. It fucking hurt, but it was better than not being near him at all.

Things just had to go to bad from worse since returning. The Blackwater mission was a fucking disaster from the get-go, but when Dutch and Micah think some plan is a good idea, then it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks. The sound of his horse crying out in pain echoed through his ears, and he flinched. Fuck, he had liked that horse. It was no Boris, but damn, Maria had served him good.

He closed his eyes, the snow melting behind his head and sinking into his scalp. He couldn’t feel his fingers, his face was entirely stiff, and, _damn_, he’d never get to make things up to Arthur.

John swallowed heavily, hunching in on himself, and nearly nodding off, when a gunshot rang out through the mountain. “Hey!” he shouted, his voice cracking and needles dragged upwards through his throat. “Over here!”

He attempted to rise to his feet, but his legs shook and collapsed. Crumpling into a ball, he curled inwards, no longer feeling the pain in his legs. His fingers were starting to turn colors, and he shoved them beneath his armpits, breathing heavily. He heard Javier, and someone else he couldn’t quite make out, calling out to him. He tried to call out in turn, but he would break off in coughing fits, or lost his breath, his chest heaving. “Over here!” he cried out, his head ringing and black began to pin his gaze.

“We’re comin’, John!” Javier shouted in return, and it sounded closer than before. John relaxed a bit, his head going back to rest against the rock. His greasy hair was freezing to his cheeks and the back of his neck, and he wondered if the voices were just an illusion.

“Over here!” he shouted again, and broke off coughing, tasting blood.

“Pipe down, Marston!” came the second voice, and he froze. Oh, God, he had to be dreaming now. That—Arthur wouldn’t have come to find him. Arthur wanted nothing to do with him anymore. Arthur loved Dutch more than him, and he _hated_ John for leaving. He would have left John to die—

A shadow fell over him, and he slowly raised his gaze, breathing heavily. Sure enough, Arthur Morgan and Javier were standing on the ledge above him. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked them back. “Never thought I’d say this,” he croaked out, “but I’m glad to see you, Arthur Morgan.”

“Can’t say the same t’ you,” Arthur retorted, and if John was more present, he would have been offended, “You look bad.”

“I don’t feel too good neither,” he groaned, as Arthur pulled him up onto the cliff ledge next to Javier. Arthur bent, trying to put John over his shoulder, and John felt Javier’s hands on him, aiding Arthur.

“Come on, compadre,” Javier sighed, as Arthur began to carry him up the slope. “Let’s get you home.”

John began to shake against Arthur, the man’s warmth slowly seeping into his body. He held back whines and sounds of pain, trying his best to stay conscious. Arthur suddenly stopped, and John groaned, raising his head to see what was going on.

That’s when the wolf howls broke through the silence.

“Great,” John murmured, slumping back down against Arthur. He groaned as he was passed from Arthur to Javier, and heard the older man say, “Get going—I’ll draw them off.”

He bobbed in and out of conscious, only vaguely remembering getting onto the back of Boaz. He pried his eyes open at the sound of gunshots, watching as the wolves fell dead. Javier climbed onto Boaz, and Arthur soon joined them on a horse John didn’t recognize.

John shivered against Javier’s back, leaning against him, as if trying to sap out all the warmth from him. “You know,” he heard Arthur call, and John raised his head, warily, “We’re gonna have to come up with a better story for that scar.”

A weak chuckle escaped him. “So, being chased, nearly eaten and starved, ain’t good enough for you?” He managed to meet the man’s gaze, and saw there was a small smile on Arthur’s face. His heart warmed, and he leaned his head back down against Javier, breathing through his mouth.

“See those houses up ahead, John?” Javier called over his shoulder. “That’s where we’re holed up.” As soon as they reached the settlement, Javier and Arthur were calling out for help. Bill and Lenny helped him off of the horse, and he cried out in pain as they wrenched his legs. He vaguely heard Abigail making comments as the men helped him inside, but he passed out as soon as his head hit the cot.

Everything hurt when he next was able to keep conscious longer than a couple of minutes. The reverend was sitting with him, and John didn’t say anything, just blinked the sleep out of his eyes, his mouth incredibly dry. The reverend didn’t look tweaked, but John didn’t feel the usually lightness that came with morphine. Wondered if the reverend was kind enough to share, and he was just in too much pain.

The door opened, and a gust of wind blew in. Arthur stepped in, and made a comment to the reverend, who promptly got up and left. John turned his head to see Arthur making his way over to the reverend’s vacant chair, and sat down. “How you feelin’?”

“’Bout how I look,” he responded, tugging the blankets closer around him. Arthur smiled a bit at him, and John couldn’t help but wonder why he was here. Why he even bothered coming in. Fuck, the first time in nearly two years that they’ve been alone, and he decided now? When John was cold, in pain, and now ugly as all hell?

He let out a small, inaudible curse under his breath as the door opened, and Abigail walked in, with young Jack behind her. She came up to the cot, looking him over with disdain. “The boy wanted to see you, John.”  
He lifted his head a bit, to see Jack grasping at his mother’s skirt. He knew that this situation wasn’t the boy’s fault—that he should be nicer, be a better father, but he couldn’t, not when he knew the boy wasn’t even his. At four, the kid looked to be more Bill’s.

“Well, he’s seen me,” he replied, lowering his head back. Abigail’s lips curled, and she turned her head away. “What were you hopin’ to see?”

“I was hopin’ to see a corpse.”

“You’ll be seeing enough of those soon enough.”

Chill swept over him as the door opened again. John shuddered, wanting to bury himself beneath the blankets further, wondering why everyone was deciding to bother him today.

“Time to go after that train, son,” Dutch called, and Arthur, the loyal dog, rose to his feet.

John struggled to sit up, but ended up lowering himself back down. “Would you like me t’ come, Dutch?”

“You know I would, son,” Dutch replied, stepping up to the edge of the cot. Their eyes met, and John wished that Dutch would let him go. Get him out of here, get him away from Abigail, and maybe, he’d die this time. “But you need your rest.”

“Sure.”

John’s head swam from trying to move too much, and a soft groan escaped him. He felt Arthur pat his shoulder as the man turned, and left. Abigail, seeing the opportunity, tore into him. He laid there, listening as she scalded him with her tongue, striking him where it hurt. Placing a hand over where Arthur touched him, he scrunched his eyes closed, and listen to the wind blowing through Colter.

Horseshoe Overlook was a nice camp. It reminded him a little bit of Wolf’s Valley, but again, so did most camps that were surrounded by forests.

He stood near the edge, a coffee cup in hand, and he took careful drinks. His face still fucking hurt, and it still bled somedays, but it was healing up. His pride had taken a couple of hits when the other gang members made comments on it, but he just rolled his eyes, and moved on.

He could hear Arthur speaking to the O’Driscoll, Kieran something or other. Apparently, he had been brought in while John had been fighting against the infection and fever in Colter. Not that John cared much, the kid was pretty easy to forget, ‘specially since he was tied to a tree.

It wasn’t too long before he heard Dutch join in with the voices, Bill soon joining as well, followed by the Kieran kid’s terrified screams. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Kieran pressing himself against the tree, Bill jabbing at him with the gelding tongs. His heart fluttered a bit, and turned away. The kid clearly wasn’t worth the effort of torturing, with his screaming and such. While he could lead them to Colm’s location, was it really worth it?

Dutch calling out to him proved him wrong.

He set his cup down on one of the tables, heading over to where his new steed, Old Boy, was hitched. “John,” Arthur said, nudging the Kieran kid towards him. “You take ‘em. If he tries anything funny . . .”

John let out a snort, and climbed onto Old Boy. “No funny stuff, O’Driscoll,” he said, feeling the kid’s hands settle on his hips. The kid’s eyes were constantly wide, and his body stiff. He barely moved on the back of Old Boy as they began to make their way to Six Point Cabin.

However, the kid’s mouth did not cease. He began to tire of it, and snapped, “Shut it, O’Driscoll.”

“I told you, I ain’t an O’Driscoll,” Kieran practically whined in return. John shot him a glare over his shoulder, and the kid went quiet.

The kid ended up being wrong about Colm being there, and John wanted to kill him instead of setting him free, like Arthur attempted too. John stood next to Bill, trying to remain calm, but his hand itched to grab his gun and put a bullet between the kid’s eyes.

“I-I saved your life!” Kieran shouted, and John froze. He looked to Arthur, and saw the man looked conflicted. “I-If I was gon’ betray you, I w-wouldn’t have saved you!”

“Kid’s got a point, Arthur,” Bill pointed out, looking extremely amused by the situation.

John turned, lips curling as Arthur sighed, and ordered them to take the kid back to camp. Kieran walked in front of him as they headed towards their horses, and John’s gaze burned into the back of his head. He couldn’t quite believe it, but he owed Arthur’s life to an _O’Driscoll._

He mounted Old Boy, peering at the cabin that Arthur had disappeared into. Things were changing, and he wasn’t sure if it was for the better.

It was less than a week later when he, Arthur, Sean, and Charles hit a train. Entering camp, his blood was pumping loudly in his chest, and he turned to the rest of the group. Sean and Charles had already dismounted, heading into camp, while John waited for Arthur. He wasn’t sure what had changed between them, but it was starting to feel like how it used to be. There were some times when Arthur would look at him, and he could _swear_ he saw a flicker of emotion through there, of something that they both long since had to bury deep.

He wanted to reach out to Arthur, and let him know it was okay. That they could try again.

Instead, he had to settle for the older man to clasp his shoulder, and murmur, “You did good, kid,” before he headed into camp. His heart was fluttering loudly in his chest, and found himself smiling. It was immediately replaced by a scowl when Micah stormed past him, their shoulders colliding.

“Watch out, asshole,” John snapped.

Micah turned, and laughed. “Shut up, kid. Ya don’t want to fuck with me right now.”

“Why? Still sore about havin’ Arthur break you out of jail?” He tried not to grin when the man scowled, the man’s mustache twitching.

“No. I ain’t an errand boy, and someone—” he shouted towards camp, which was immediately reciprocated by someone yelling at him to shut the fuck up, “—needs to learn that!”

John followed his gaze, and saw Strauss looking at them with a raised eyebrow, before he raised his hand, and tapped at the face of his pocket watch. Micah scowled, turning away again. John snorted. “You want t’ be like Arthur,” John taunted, “And Arthur is Dutch’s errand boy, as you know. Get used t’ it.”

“Go suck a cock, Marston.”

John reeled back like he had been hit, and he went to tackle Micah off of Baylock, but the man had already taken off. _Fucking coward_, he thought to himself, clenching and then unclenching his hands. The man had been nothing but trouble since Dutch brought him back, but their leader seemed to be oblivious to it all.

Pulling a bottle of gin out of his satchel, he headed over to the scout fire and sat down, not realizing that Kieran was sitting there until it was too late. John tried to ignore him at first, taking a giant swig of gin, but clearly the kid couldn’t take the hint.

“. . . How long have you been feelin’ this way?”

John shot Kieran an incredulous look. “What the hell you talkin’ about?”

The kid’s face turned red, and he shifted uncomfortably on the log. “You know . . .” the kid’s eyes traveled behind John, and he followed his gaze, tensing up when his eyes landed on Arthur. “With Arthur . . .”

“Shut up, kid,” John snarled. “You don’t know nothin’.”

Kieran shifted on the log, and curled in on himself. Part of John felt bad, but he immediately shook it off. He didn’t need an O’Driscoll ruining everything for him. “I get it,” Kieran tried again, and only flushed a darker color when John turned his glare onto him. “I do. I know—I’m—” Then, he said it so low, that John barely caught it, “I’m one of you, you know?”

John clenched his fists. Was he being so obvious? “If you know what’s good for you, kid,” he replied, hotly. “You’re going to act like you didn’t see nothin’.” John rose to his feet, and took another large swig from his bottle, before he began to walk away.

“I just—” he heard Kieran attempt to call out, “If . . . I’m always here.”

After noticing how Dutch’s gaze was no longer following them as closely, and he wasn’t getting ignored by Arthur any longer, John decided he was going to test just how far things could go. If it would be possible—

Stealing some sheep seemed to be a simple and easy enough task, right? It wasn’t like the old days, and John was prepared to accept that it wasn’t ever going to be like that again, but it was a good start.

It was nice. Riding alongside him, chatting like it was the good old days.

Leave it to Dutch though, to make everything go wrong.

Helping Strauss up onto the back of Old Boy, John turned his head when he felt Arthur’s hand on his shoulder. He blinked in surprise, glancing at Dutch, and saw the man was preoccupied.

“You okay?” Arthur murmured, his horse Pericles stomping his hooves behind him.

“Yeah,” he replied, voice catching. “I am.”

His shoulder burned as they rode back to camp, and he got that giddy feeling in his chest again. He kept looking to Dutch, wondering if the man was suspicious, if he had noticed anything at all, but he remained oblivious. John’s heart leapt into his throat. If things could go back to the way they were, before Dutch found out, before this whole Abigail mess . . .

He really tried not to get his hopes up.

Clemens Point was hot and uncomfortable.

John swatted at the mosquito on his neck, inhaling sharply as he looked around the camp. The only good thing about this camp was the whole Braithwaite and Gray ordeal. According to Hosea, there was some good money at the end of the deal. The thought of it lining his pockets made the heat just a little more bearable.

“Papa!”

He flinched, looking down to see Jack holding a stick. John turned towards the wagon, and began to adjust the wheel. “Want to play swords?” Jack continued. “You just wave it around, like this!”

Watching Jack demonstrate it irritated him a little, but he reminded himself to stay calm. “Not right now, I ain’t . . . I ain’t really into all that—”

“It’s easy!” Jack interrupted, grinning widely. John bit down on the inside of his cheek. “See? You just—”

“Not right now, Jack,” John didn’t mean to snap, and he felt bad as the kid’s face fell. “Now . . . now really ain’t a great time.” He turned back towards the wagon, taking a deep breath.

“It ain’t ever a great time,” Jack murmured, and John’s hands clenched at the wagon wheel. He pressed his forehead against the wagon, knowing that Abigail would be coming after him later, would be screaming at him, and probably hit him. He was thinking of things to say, of what he could possibly say that would make things a little bit better.

He scrubbed his hand across his face, and let out a deep sigh. He was mentally preparing himself to face Abigail’s wrath when he heard Mary-Beth shout, “Arthur?!” The worry and panic in Mary-Beth’s voice made his head snap up, and he immediately headed towards the sound.

Pericles was standing in the entrance, tossing his head and whinnying loudly. The horse’s eyes were wide, and you could barely see the whites of his eyes. There was blood along the iron grey Ardennes’ pelt, staining his coat. Kieran approached to try to calm the huge war horse, but John—John turned his attention back to Arthur, who was laying on the ground, surrounded by members of the gang.

The man looked fucking awful. Looked like he had been through hell and back, like he was on the brink of death—

He was pushed out of the way as Grimshaw and Swanson appeared, Charles and Bill helping Arthur to his feet. The man’s head lolled, resting against his chest. He wanted to reach out, wanted to push Bill away, but he remained still, eyes tracking him all the while.

John made a move to head to Arthur’s tent. He knew he’d be in the way, but he wanted to help, _needed_ to be there if something went wrong—

A heavy hand fell onto his shoulder. John tensed, and didn’t have to look to know who was there.

“Why don’t you take the guard shift, John?” It was not a suggestion.

“Sure.”

“Good boy,” Dutch said, before he disappeared into his own tent. John remained in the camp, clenching and unclenching his fists for a good while.

“You okay?” John asked, keeping Old Boy next to Pericles. Arthur glanced at him, but said nothing, just pulled out a cigarette and lit one. Javier had disappeared from view long ago, leaving the two alone to speak.

“Fine. Why?”

John shrugged. “I ain’t . . . ain’t really got to ask how ya have been doin’ since you came back. You had us all worried there, for a long while.” He didn’t mention how he was nervous that this mission had been too much for Arthur and Pericles. They had barely been back on their feet, and Dutch had ordered him to tag along. He could tell that the man wasn’t at full working order yet, and from Pericles’ heavy breathing, his horse wasn’t neither.

Arthur snorted. “Ya really need t’ stop worrying about me, John.”

“You know I can’t,” he retorted quickly, and Arthur went quiet, taking slow drags of his cigarette. John shifted in his saddle, and turned his gaze forward again, chewing on his bottom lip. Finally, he managed to say, “I . . . I feel real bad that I hadn’t noticed you were gone. I should’ve—”

“I disappear all the time, John,” Arthur pointed out. “Go out on long hunting missions, disappear to who knows where. I ain’t anyone’s responsibility.”

“Someone should have _noticed_.” John clenched his jaw, and shook his head. He shot glances at Arthur, trying to get a read on him before he went into his next point. “Dutch didn’t even see that anything was odd. Came back and told us that ya hadn’t met up with him after the meeting with Colm. Dutch, the most paranoid fuck I know, wasn’t concerned that you didn’t show up?”

“He has his reasons—”

“Bullshit!” He reached over, and pulled Pericles’ reins, turning his gaze upwards when Arthur protested. “It’s bullshit and you know it, Arthur.”

Arthur bowed his head, gaze hidden by the brim of his hat. John glanced around, before he reached over, and gently intertwined their fingers. He cursed himself when Arthur jerked away, and said, “Enough.”

“Arthur—” He spluttered and coughed as Pericles kicked dust up in his face as Arthur took off. He waved a hand in front of his face, his heart plummeting. “God dammit, John,” he murmured to himself, “You really are a fucking idiot.”

Abigail’s hand struck his cheek. “It’s been four years!” she shouted, as John gripped at the tree and forced himself upright. His cheek was hot from the repeated abuse, and he feared if he took another strike, his stitches would rip open. “Four years, and you still can’t accept that the boy is yours?”

“Abigail,” he croaked, as he looked her in the eye. “We ain’t slept together. You know that, I know that.” The woman’s face flushed, and she couldn’t meet his gaze anymore. He wondered if he would ever break through to her. “The kid can’t be mine if we ain’t slept together.”

“How do you know we ain’t slept together?” She jabbed her index finger into his chest. “We been over the bay together before. You know how things can happen, then. Before I discovered my condition, we had gotten drunk together. How can you be so sure—”

“Because I ain’t fucked a woman.” He was surprised by how quietly he said it. He wanted to shout it to the heavens, even if it meant the entire camp heard it. Nevertheless, the relief that he felt at finally having said it felt—well, he didn’t quite know how to explain it. Abigail stared at him, clutching at her throat. “I ain’t—I ain’t _like that_ and if you hate me, and you want to tell everyone an’ have ‘em kill me, be my guest. But I can’t live that lie anymore, Abigail. Can’t be a father to a boy that ain’t mine.”

Abigail didn’t say anything, just continued to drag her fingers along her neck. Slowly, she began to fall to the ground, and John reached out, taking her by the bicep and helping her down. She did not jerk away from his touch, so he took that as a good sign. He sat down next to her, resting his forearm against his knee.

“I can’t believe this,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “Can’t believe I’ve been such a fool.” John didn’t say anything, just leaned back, and looked up at the darkening sky. The crickets began to chirp, and John watched as Hosea went down to the shore to fish. She turned to look at him. “I—John, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry ain’t gonna fix anything,” he said, picking up a rock and chucking it towards the water. He glanced at Abigail. “What you can do, is tell the boy’s _real_ father. Give ‘em a chance to parent their own child.” Abigail began to rub at her throat a lot rougher, and John’s eyebrows furrowed together. “You do know who the boy’s father is, ain’t you?”

Abigail glanced towards camp, but then down at the forest floor. John sat with her, not sure what else to do. He sat back, and thought of the possible members of the gang. Well . . . he always thought the kid looked like Bill. Neither John or Abigail had brown hair, and John wasn’t a possible father, anyways. She had slept with Dutch and Javier as well—at least, to John’s knowledge—but both men’s hair was darker.

“It’s Bill, ain’t it?”

Abigail flinched at the name, and said, “He ain’t a good man.”

“He’s fine enough,” he replied with a shrug, “Bill’s a good man, just . . . angry. I’m sure if ya told him, he’d be there for Jack, better than I was.” He itched at his cheek. “He cares. Ya just gotta . . .” He waved a hand. “Bill lacks a lot of things, but if ya just . . . trust in him, and be kind t’ him, everything’ll be okay. Jack’s unconditional love will change him. Being a parent will change him.”

Abigail didn’t reply at first. She picked at a string on her skirt, before leaning into John. He tensed, but wrapped an arm around her nonetheless. “Thank you, John,” she murmured, “I’m . . . I’m really sorry, for the past four years. I hope you can forgive me.”

“. . . It may take me some time, but I’m sure I’ll get over it.” He chuckled, and patted her on the shoulder. “For now, I think it’s best if ya tell the boy the truth, and Bill as well. I won’t mind being called Uncle John.”

She smiled at him, and they remained that way for a while, before John stood up, and tugged her to her feet. She leaned forward, and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry,” she murmured, “Your secret’s safe with me.”

His face turned a deep red, and he scratched at the back of his neck. He had totally forgotten about his own secret he had spilled. “Thank you, I appreciate it.” She nodded, and the two headed back to camp, John heading to his own tent, while Abigail headed towards where Bill was sitting. John watched as the man got up, and follow Abigail, clearly looking confused. He took a deep breath, and laid down on his bedroll. That was one thing off of his chest.

John was sitting on the shore the next day when Arthur approached him. “Dutch is angry,” Arthur murmured, before he sat down next to John. John glanced at him, and felt jealousy surge through him. Arthur was dressed impeccably, looking better dressed than Dutch himself.

Was he jealous because of Arthur’s nice clothes, or because the way he looked was making John feel things?

John lit a cigarette, and passed one to Arthur. “What for?”

Arthur gave him a pointed look. “You know what for.” He blew the smoke out through his nostrils, and itched at the space between his eyes. “Bill seems happy, though. So does Jack.”

“Good for them,” John replied with a shrug. Earlier that day, he had seen the two disappear on Brown Jack, Cain barking and running after them. They had returned not too long ago, Jack carrying flowers while Bill had enough fish to feed them for a couple of days. Despite not physically looking like it, John could tell that Bill was a little happier. He wondered if the man had his own suspicions on Jack’s parentage, and now that his thoughts were confirmed—well. John could understand why he’d be happy to have his thoughts confirmed.

John glanced at Arthur, who had already smoked through his cigarette and pulled out another one. “There a reason why you came to sit with me?”

Arthur didn’t reply at first, but when he raised his eyes, John nearly choked on air. Everything and anything that Arthur could say was in his eyes, and John desperately wanted to reach out, to cup his cheek and lean into him like they used to do.

Arthur seemed to sense it. “We can’t.”

John shook his head. “We can.”

“Don’t argue with me about this—”

“We just need t’ be more careful than before,” John whispered. “Dutch is too busy worrying about Colm, about the Pinkertons, this _game_ we’re playing with those families. We can do this, Arthur—”

Curse John and his big mouth. Arthur had already rose to his feet, his second cigarette discarded and smoldered in the sand. John turned, and buried his face in his palm.

The smell of smoke was never going to get out of John’s clothes.

He stifled a cough as he and Arthur made their way towards a place called Shady Belle. He glanced at Arthur, and adjusted his grip on his reins. “Why do you think the Braithwaites would’ve taken Jack?” he called to him. “How’d they even _know_ about him?”

Arthur shrugged. “Don’t know, but we need to get that boy back. Ain’t so sure that Bill ain’t gonna burn down all of Saint Denis to find him.”

John couldn’t help but agree with that. Bill had flown into a fury upon hearing Jack was gone, and had barely kept it under control when they had gone to the Braithwaites. John wasn’t even so sure that Bill needed their help—hell, by they time they got back to camp, Jack could already be back. Bill on a mission was deadly on its own, but a furious one? He hoped Angelo Bronte new what was coming to him.

They came up to Shady Belle and dismounted. John kept glancing to Arthur, not looking away when their gaze met. Things had developed since the last time they had been alone. He knew that the only reason why Arthur wasn’t making any moves was due to fear. John _needed_ him to break through that, be the Arthur he had once fell in love with. ‘Sides, John didn’t see thing whole gang thing going on much longer, and Arthur _must_ see that, too.

There weren’t many raiders to get rid of. It was honestly a waste of bullets, in John’s opinion. Couldn’t help but think how each one of those bullets could have been used towards Bronte, or those God damn Pinkertons . . .

He headed up the staircase, and came into one of the back rooms. Arthur was wiping down his knife, and slid it back into its sheath. He glanced at John. “Should get rid of the bodies,” John murmured, “Don’t need the gang walkin’ into this.”

Arthur nodded, humming in agreement. The older man went to step past him, when John grabbed him by the bicep. He was surprised by his own actions, but did not let go when Arthur tried to shake him off. John glanced upwards, locking eyes. He swallowed, and could feel Arthur’s hot breath on his face. Fuck, how long had it been? Since they had been this close, since they had been alone, no one within ten miles—

“John,” Arthur whispered, but did not back away, “We can’t.”

“You’re lyin’ to yourself,” John murmured, “Do you like doin’ that?” Arthur shuddered beneath him, but didn’t move. John leaned in, their lips barely brushing. “C’mon, Arthur. Dutch ain’t worrying about us no more. We just . . . need t’ be careful.”

A displeased sound came from the other’s throat, but he did not push John away. “This whole thing ain’t going well. You know this whole thing is gonna be over. What’s it matter what we do?” Silence was the answer John got. Hiding his frustration as Arthur’s silence, he opened his mouth, “We could just cut and run—”

A startled gasp escaped him as Arthur smashed their mouths together, teeth scraping against each other as Arthur curled an arm around his middle, the other coming up to cup the back of his head. John moaned, and gripped the front of Arthur’s jacket. God, it had been so long since he had been held, so long since he had been _kissed_. He had remained celibate throughout their forced separation, and he had no doubt Arthur had as well.

He pulled away, his head spinning, their foreheads pressed together. John nuzzled against him, reaching up and stroking his cheek. “Arthur . . .” he murmured, lightly grinding their hips together.

“No, John.”

Protest bubbled up through his throat, and he jerked his head back, looking at Arthur with a gaze full of rage. It was immediately extinguished when he met Arthur’s gaze, and saw the man’s loving gaze. “Not that. Not right now. Dutch’ll know, ‘specially if we take too long.” Arthur stole another kiss, tugging on John’s bottom lip before his teeth. John squirmed against him, cupping his face tightly.

“So . . . you ain’t?”

“Yeah,” he said, plucking John’s hat up off of the floor and plopping it on his head. John adjusted it, and smiled like a fool at Arthur. “Like ya said . . . discreet.”

“Uh huh,” John swallowed, feeling the same sort of giddiness he had as a kid. He knew he needed to leave to guide the caravan here, but he couldn’t help but drag Arthur forward, kissing him like he was dying.

Arthur placed his hands on John’s hip, and gently pushed him away. “Go, Johnny.”

John tugged down the brim of Arthur’s hat. “Don’t leave me, cowboy,” he replied, before carefully stepping over the Lemoyne Raider’s body, and headed down to Old Boy.

John watched as Dutch, Bill, and Arthur left to go confront Bronte, only looking away when they had disappeared from view. Sighing heavily, John managed to catch Kieran jerking his head, turning bright red, and proceeded to hide behind Maggie. Shoving his thumbs behind his suspender straps, he strolled towards the pasture, and leant up against Ennis’ hindquarters, crossing his arms and staring Kieran down. Kieran yelped once he noticed John, and ducked his head, cowering a bit. “Reason why ya looking at me, boy?”

“I just—” Kieran started, then swallowed. “I-I just noticed you and Mister Morgan were . . . you know. I’m just—I’m glad for you.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, John forced himself to take a couple death, calming breaths. “Why are you so concerned about what happens between me and Arthur? How do ya even _know_?”

“I just—I can tell, you know?” Kieran wrung his hands together, his bottom lip becoming swollen and bright red from all the chewing he was doing to it. “Since I’m . . . you know. A-and, well, y’all kind of remind me and my old beau. We never got to be happy an’ together, scared of what’d happen to us.” He itched at his cheek. “I just don’t want that to happen to no one else.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, it was John’s turn to flush red and look away. He and the rest of the gang had treated the O’Driscoll wrong, and from what he had overheard while Kieran was talking to Mary-Beth, the boy’s entire life had been that way. And here he was, suffering from the same affliction that Arthur and John were, and John was makin’ things worse for him. “Well . . . thank you, I suppose.”

Kieran smiled at him. “Yeah . . . If you, um, ever need to talk about it, I’m here.”

“. . . Yeah. Same to you, Kieran.”

John hung back, leaning against the crumbling house, with his arms crossed. The entire gang was celebrating Jack’s safe return, and while John was extremely glad that no harm had befallen the boy, he couldn’t find it in him to celebrate.

He was just barely outside the circle of the gang members. Sadie and Kieran were in front of him, and just right of the party, Charles was sitting at the table. He closed his eyes momentarily, listening as the gang sang together, knowing that for many, this was going to be a late night.

“Don’t want t’ go and join ‘em?”

John slowly opened his eyes, and glanced over his left shoulder. Arthur was close enough that their arms brushed when John slowly uncurled himself from his position. “I got other things on my mind,” John said, glancing at Arthur, hoping the man would get the hint.

Arthur tensed next to him, shifting on his feet minutely, but his gaze remained on the party. “Can’t do that here.”

“Not sayin’ that _that’s_ what I want t’ do.” Sadie glanced over her shoulder at them, but she didn’t move from her position, and made no sign that she heard what they were talking about. John continued to lean against Shady Belle, and did not acknowledge when Arthur let out a grunt, and promptly headed into the house.

John waited a couple of seconds, before he turned and followed him inside. Carefully stepping around the creaky and broken boards, John headed upstairs. There was no lantern glow shining from beneath the door, and for a moment, John wondered if he had misinterpreted things. He stood there for a few moments, the singing from outside getting louder and louder. He eventually snapped out of it when the door creaked open, and Arthur murmured, “Comin’?”

“Yeah,” John said, his throat tight. He slinked inside Arthur’s room, surprised to see that Arthur had thrown a blanket over the window. “Hey—” he started to talk, but was cut off by Arthur wrapping his arms around him, and pushing him back onto the cot. John went quiet, his mind reeling as his body came to realize that _Arthur_ was cuddling with him. That the heavy weight lying over him was not a dream. He nuzzled his face against Arthur’s jacket, wrapping his arms around him in turn.

“I really have missed you,” Arthur murmured. It was so quiet, that John barely caught it. John ran a hand through Arthur’s hair, humming a bit. Arthur’s hair was longer than usual. Ever since the whole O’Driscoll accident, Arthur had slowly stopped caring about his appearance. He’d wear the same clothes for day on end, only changing when Susan yelled at him, or someone else suggested it. He hadn’t gone to a barber since the incident, and John hadn’t seen him trim his beard since. Kind of made him wonder . . . “This is all comin’ t’ an end soon, John.”

Eyebrows furrowing together, John said, “Yeah, I know. I was the one that told ya that.”

Arthur shook his head, and rolled off of John, lying on his back next to John, but did not release his hand. Arthur’s thumb was rubbing against the back of his hand, and John rolled to his side, his eyes traveling over his face. “I know ya did, but I can . . . I can feel it. Dutch ain’t . . . well, he ain’t him.”

Knowing better than suggesting they cut and run, John remained quiet. He needed to word his thoughts carefully, not wanting Arthur to toss him out on his ass. “Dutch will always mean a lot t’ me, Arthur, ya know that.” Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face, a heavy sigh escaping him. “But this is gonna end in a hangman’s noose. We need t’ . . . need t’ get the people we can out of here. Like Sadie, like Abigail and Jack. Then we can go free, Arthur.”

“Don’t wanna talk ‘bout that right now, John,” Arthur sighed, rolling over and throwing an arm along his side. “Let’s just . . . enjoy what we can right now, right?”

John had to forcibly bite down on his tongue. He wanted to talk about how Dutch had begun to change towards him, how he thought that John was constantly questioning him and wasn’t having enough faith when it wasn’t the case. However, constantly being accused of suck as fact, now he was starting to doubt the man he had once considered a father. He opened his mouth and closed it a couple of times, finally deciding it wasn’t worth it when he heard Arthur’s breathing slow.

He leaned forward, burying his face against the man’s collarbone, and inhaled sharply. The man smelt like mint and gun munition, something that had persisted since John could remember. He listened to Arthur’s breathing, how clear and consistent it was. He smiled, and closed his eyes, briefly falling asleep next to him.

Watching the alligator take Bronte’s body was _not_ how he expected the night to do. “Jesus, Dutch,” he said without thinking, and then flinched as Dutch rose to his feet, pointing at where Bronte’s body had disappeared beneath the water, shouting, “It was either _him_, or us, John.”

John turned towards Arthur, who’s gaze was impassive. Scanning the rest of the group, his stomach sank upon seeing that no one else looked concerned by the side of Dutch they had seen.

Mounting Old Boy, John pulled him up next to Pericles. “We gotta act soon, Arthur,” he whispered to him, not looking away from Dutch. Arthur mounted Pericles, and did not respond. As they began to ride back to camp, he felt the leather of Arthur’s cavalry gloves brush against the back of his hand. John jerked his gaze to him, Arthur’s gaze firmly planted forward. He offered up his palm, and Arthur slowly intertwined their fingers. They rode behind the rest of the gang, the metaphorical distance that had begun to gather between them and the rest of the gang becoming much, much more real.

John had come to accept that he was going to get hanged.

Struck in the back of the head with a baton, John collapsed to the ground, a low groan escaping his throat. He heard the guards laugh, and when John tried to force himself to his feet, he was struck again. He didn’t know how long he had been here, how long he had _left_. He knew he was getting closer and closer to the noose, but not if he had days left, or just hours.

He thought about Hosea, about the man’s body lying in the middle of the street outside of the Saint Denis bank. John _hated_ Dutch for forcing them to do that, for not taking more precautions. From what he had heard, Lenny had died as well. So much blood had been spilled and all for what? From the sounds of it, Dutch and the others escaped, but where, he didn’t know.

Slumping against the cold concrete floor, his breathing was staggered, and his entire body hurt. He barely caught the sound of someone shouting, “Bring Marston out here!” Hauled to his feet and dragged out of his cell, he stumbled along until they reached the front gate. _This is it,_ he thought, expecting to be loaded into a wagon to be taken to Saint Denis. He did _not_ expect to see Sadie and Arthur waiting for him on the other side of the gate.

He blinked, stunned, and his mouth gaped, flapping for a little bit as the guard began to unchain him. Finally, he managed to choke out, “Nice of ya t’ finally show up.”

Arthur snorted, motioning with his gun for John to hurry up. “Shut up, Marston, we need t’ get going.”

Having a gun in his hands again was a surreal feeling, but he had no time to dwell on that fact as bullets began to whizz past them. He was a little rusty, but a fine enough shot on his own as they got into the row boat. He kept firing until Sisika was disappearing from view, and he slumped back into the boat.

He studied Arthur. The man had lost some weight, and his skin was pale, but he looked good other than that. “Did Dutch send you?” he asked, handing the handgun back to Sadie. Arthur’s pursed his lips into a thin line.

“Don’t expect a party.”

John scowled, and a bitter taste entered his mouth. “Fuckin’ Christ . . .” He took the offered canteen of water from Sadie, and chugged a good handful of it. He looked to Arthur again, and said, “What the hell took you so long?”

Sadie snorted and jerked her thumb towards Arthur. “All the men decided to take a vacation, and I ain’t been able to round up enough people to break ya out. Ya know how the women can be.”

John just nodded, and glanced at Arthur. “Gonna explain what the hell happened?”

Arthur shook his head. “Maybe some other time. We got too much shit to do.” Once they reached shore, Arthur helped them both out. John’s eyes softened at that, and he squeezed the man’s hand. “Only good thing that happened from that was Micah’s sick. Got TB or some shit.”

John snorted. “Bastard deserves it. Hope it’s slow and painful.”

Sadie slapped him on the shoulder, causing John to laugh. “Boys! Back t’gether for one second and already planning Micah’s demise?”

“Don’t act like ya haven’t been planning on killin’ him,” Arthur retorted, mounting Pericles. John struggled for a few moments, before he was able to get up on the Ardennes behind him. Sadie rolled her eyes, and John wrapped his arms around Arthur’s middle, burying his face inbetween the man’s shoulder blades. Leave it to Arthur to come save him.

The look on Dutch’s face when they returned to camp said it all. “John . . .” the man drew off, “How . . . good to see you.”

_Can’t say the same for you_, he thought, but just nodded, trying to keep himself calm. Abigail had joined them, and he could feel Bill’s gaze following her. Abigail put a hand on his chest, to keep him from lunging at Dutch. “They was gonna hang me, Dutch.”

Dutch shook his head, and John filled with rage. “They were going to do no such thing. I was comin’ for you, son,” Dutch said, in the usual tone that he used when he was trying to get people to have a little bit of _God damn faith. _“I . . . had . . . a God damn _plan_.”

“Wasn’t really working out for you, was it?” John retorted, moving to get in Dutch’s face. “When have your plans ever worked out, lately?” John was jerked back by Arthur and Abigail, Arthur telling her to take him somewhere to calm down. John kept his eyes firmly on Dutch, and couldn’t keep the look of disdain off of him.

He was surprised when Bill approached him.

“What can I do for you?” he murmured, taking another swig from his beer bottle. It had been a couple of nights since John had come back, and things were getting worse by the day. Some of the gang members had left, and Micah had brought these two men in that John wasn’t quite sure they could trust. Dutch was losing it, losing everything. John wanted to just cut and run—the women, Jack, and Charles were probably the only men that they would be able to get to leave. Arthur had already managed to persuade Mary-Beth, Tilly, and Karen to leave. Miss Grimshaw had gone along just out of principle, not wanting the women to travel on their own. John wasn’t sure how they were going to get the remaining people out, but John would stick by Arthur until the end.

Bill swallowed. “I think . . .” he began, and John bit back a remark. Bill scratched at his forehead, and looked around the camp. “Abigail and Jack don’t deserve t’ live like this. They need . . . something better.” Bill’s face flushed. “I’ve been talkin’ to Abigail, tryin’ to get her to leave, but she won’t. She’ll listen t’ you more than she’ll listen t’ me.”

John blinked in surprised. This was the first time that he heard Bill say anything that he thought was reasonable. Bill was one of the _last_ people he’d expect that would want to cut and run from the gang, but he guessed having people to be reasonable for would do that to anyone. John rose to his feet, and clasped a hand on his shoulder. “If I’m gonna be honest with you,” he said, “Arthur an’ I been thinkin’ about running as well. We just need Sadie and Charles t’ leave before we do.”

Bill nodded, and swallowed. “Just . . . keep me in the loop, I guess.”

John nodded. While he may not personally like Bill, the man had changed for the better, and, dammit, John was going to help him out.

“You left me!”

Weeks had passed since his conversation with Bill. He had not been able to get Abigail to leave, even with John talking to her. While he wasn’t quite sure what was keeping her to stay, but considering how much attention she was paying to John and Arthur, she probably wouldn’t leave until they did. Things kept getting more and more fucked, keeping both John and Arthur from leaving. John thought that Dutch leaving Arthur for dead and getting Eagle Flies killed would have been the last straw for the older man, but no, they had remained.

He felt Arthur’s gaze on him, but he was too enraged. His eyes burrowed into Dutch, and he watched as the man made a feeble attempt at explaining why he had left John to die.

Bill was hesitantly standing on Dutch’s side of the divide, his eyes going wide upon seeing John. “You gon’ just leave everyone who disagrees with you now, huh, Dutch?” John snarled. Bill’s gaze flashed, and suddenly, the man’s posture changed. He was on Arthur’s side, slowly raising his gun.

John’s head was swimming as Arthur, Micah, and Dutch began to argue, shouting over one another. The next thing John was able to hear was a gunshot ringing throughout the forest, and someone shouting, “It’s the fucking Pinkertons!”

“C’mon!” Arthur shouted, grabbing John by the bicep and dragging him back towards the caves, Bill tight on their heels. Arthur turned, as if he was surprised that Bill was following them, but said nothing. They fired shots behind them blindly, and John’s lungs burned from the exertion. He was healthy and this was taking a lot out of him, he wondered how ol’ black lung Micah was handling shit.

Reaching their horses on the other side of the ladder seemed like assured escape. He gasped for breath, mounting Old Boy before anyone could speak. Arthur turned to Bill, who was promptly mounting Brown Jack. “You need t’ get to your family,” Arthur barked, “Get t’ ‘em an’ get them out of here!”

“You got it, Morgan. Good luck, boys. If ya survive, meet us at Van Horn, we got someone there who’ll hide us till everything passes.”

Arthur looked unsure, but John spoke for him, not giving him a chance to tell Bill how bad of an idea that was. “We’ll meet you,” John panted, “Be careful, Williamson.” Without exchanging further words, they took off in separate directions, John realizing all too late that they had chosen the wrong way.

His head was a little clearer as the wind whipped by him, turning around and firing blindly towards the Pinkertons. A cry escaped his throat as he heard Old Boy and Pericles cry out in pain, and John’s body connected with the ground.

“C’mon!” John shouted, getting to his feet. Arthur was bent by Pericles’ head, pulling the horse’s head into his lap, murmuring something to the horse. “_Arthur_!”

“Give me a moment,” Arthur replied, stroking the horse’s face and murmuring, “Thank you,” before the steed went still. Arthur got up, rushing after him and together they climbed up the mountain, desperately trying to make their escape.

John only stopped when he felt a hand on his bicep, and turned to look at Arthur. “We don’t got time t’ stop—” he paused, and took gulping breaths, “C’mon, Arthur—”

“Go ahead with out me,” Arthur breathed, pulling him close to smash their lips together. The words barely registered in his head. “Go—I’ll—I’ll keep them off of you.”

“Arthur—no—”

“John,” Arthur said, stroking his cheek. “Don’t argue with me. Please.”

John’s fists twisted in the lapels of Arthur’s coat, and kissed him harshly, their teeth scraping together. “Don’t you dare die on me Arthur Morgan.” Arthur then pushed him away, and, against his better judgment, John ran.

The Kentucky Sadler that John had stolen from someone’s farm came to a stand still outside of a house not too far outside of Van Horn. He recognized Sadie’s gold dapple Turkoman, and he prayed to _God_ that none of the Pinkertons passing through would recognize it. Shakily, he dismounted the Kentucky Sadler, and vomited on the ground. It felt like someone had seized his throat, and was gripping so tightly he could not breathe. He couldn’t believe what he had just done.

In a near drunken state, John stumbled into the house, not even blinking when several rifles were pointed at his face. He collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “John!” Abigail shouted, dropping the repeater she was holding and rushing to him, wrapping him in a tight hug. Hell, even Jack came over and followed suit. He looked to Bill, and saw the man’s equally relieved gaze.

Sadie looked relieved as well, but her gaze darkened immediately. “John . . . where’s Arthur?”

John flinched, and buried his face in his hands, trying to keep his breathing calm, swallowing the bile in his throat. Sadie, clearly, didn’t like his reaction. “John, what the hell happened to Arthur?”

“I . . . Fuck!” He shouted, throwing his hat to the ground. “I fucking . . . he told me to fuckin’ leave. That he’d distract the Pinkertons. I—” He gritted his teeth. “I fucking left him and he’s _dead_.”

Silence fell in the tiny cabin, John not realizing that the owner of the cabin had poked her head out, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment before she left them be. Silent tears fell down John’s cheeks, and he did nothing as Abigail attempted to console him.

Sitting outside of the cabin, John kept his head bowed. He was wearing some of Bill’s clothes, and while it was not as good as a disguise as they could have asked for, it was most certainly better than nothing. His cheeks were ruddy and red, stained by tears. It had been hours since John had left Arthur up on the mountain, and it agonized him at the thought that it was the last time he was ever going to see him.

John jerked his head up, glancing out from beneath the brim of his hat to see the newcomer. His heart leapt into his throat, and his body followed the same, when he saw Baylock riding up to them. He did not recognize the rider, but if Micah had managed to escape—

“Why you pointin’ that gun at me for, Marston?”

John nearly dropped his rifle from shock, and he could do nothing more than watch as Arthur dismounted Baylock. Arthur looked fine—he looked great, even. It was only when Arthur got within arm reach that John reacted, and slapped Arthur violently on the shoulder, before he enveloped him in his arms. “Never do that to me again, asshole, you understand me?!”

Arthur chuckled, kissing the side of John’s head and wrapped his arms around him in turn, practically smothering him. John ignored the sounds of the others calling out, asking what was going on—John couldn’t believe it, and expected to be pinched, to wake up from this dream that had manifested. It was a cruel trick for God to play on him. “Hey,” Arthur murmured, gently pulling back and cupping John’s face, forcing John to look up at him. “It’s all right.” John didn’t realize it till Arthur spoke to him, but he was shaking violently, his eyes growing went again. John just smiled up at him, teary-eyed, before he smashed their mouths together once more, a feeling of relief washing over him.

John didn’t mean to be clingy. But after nearly a month of constantly experiencing near-death, he felt like he had a right to cling to Arthur and not let go. John kept his Kentucky Sadler close to Baylock, their intertwined hands hidden between the two horses. Sadie was on her Turkoman, while Bill had Brown Jack tied to a wagon their host had graciously given up, Abigail sitting next to him, with Jack on her lap. Bill kept glancing over to her, like he couldn’t believe it was real.

Sadie looked at them, and for the first time, John saw regret in her eyes. “Guess this is goodbye then, huh?”

Abigail looked anxious, and chewed on her bottom lip. “At least until the Pinkertons give up. I think, eventually, we should all be able to meet up.”

Arthur shook his head. “Not for a long time. I reckon we shouldn’t even exchange letters. Keep to ourselves, until we know for sure it’s safe.”

Abigail looked disappointed. “Best change your names, too . . . Except for you, Sadie,” John said, turning to look directly at her. “Ain’t ever seen ya on any bounty posters.”

Sadie snorted. “Now, that’s just downright sexist.”

John gave her a weary smile, before turning to the others. Suddenly feeling a little emotional, he said, “Well . . . guess this goodbye, then. Jack . . . ya be good for your mother, ya hear?”

Jack’s smile was wobbly. “Okay, Uncle John . . .”

There was an awkward moment of silence, where no one knew what to say. John couldn’t quite believe it himself. After nearly a decade of running with this gang, Arthur longer than most, it was finally . . .

“Be safe.” John blinked, and looked to Arthur, surprised he even said anything. Everyone nodded, some murmuring something that John couldn’t hear. Sadie took off towards Saint Denis, while Bill directed the wagon towards the Heartlands.

John and Arthur remained on the edge of Van Horn for a couple of moments, before they turned and looked at each other.

“What now?” John murmured, feeling like a directionless ship.

Arthur swallowed. “Well . . . I dunno.” They sat on their horses, bowing their gaze whenever groups of lawmen came by. John’s heart was beating so loud, he was sure the lawmen would be able to tell that they were hiding something. Arthur calmly stroking the back of his hand with his thumb was the only thing keepin’ him sane. “I . . . well. I got a friend up by O’Creagh’s run that we can stop by and see. Sure he wouldn’t mind.”

John gave Arthur an incredulous look, but ended up relenting. It was better than nothing. “Let’s go, then.”

Going and seeing Hamish was probably the best thing they could’ve done. The elderly veteran did not mind them staying there, even though they had to camp outside of his tiny house. Seemed that the vet enjoyed their company more often than not. Nothin’ that they ever liked last for long, though.

John looked out through the window to see Arthur stroking down Buell. The golden war horse had taken to Arthur just fine, and had easily taken over when Baylock got to old to ride anymore. Speaking of Baylock, the old Missouri Fox Trotter strolled up to Arthur, gently brushing her muzzle against the man’s graying hair. Arthur just smiled softly at her and offered her a peppermint. Soon enough, the Kentucky Sadler John had stolen—Alma—strolled up, sniffing at Arthur’s hands and mouthing at the skin. John shook his head, and turned back to fixing the ledger.

Living up in the Grizzlies suited them enough, there was never anyone to bother them, and whenever they did have to go into town, only one of them had to go. Not to mention John had gotten good enough at hunting and gardening that they were able to provide their own food, and they sold the pelts in town whenever they needed the extra cash. Hamish’s cabin—that the man had given to them with his dying breath, bless that man—was small, but with two men living in it who never had their own place to call their own, it was the best thing in the world to them.

John closed his eyes, listening as Arthur gently spoke to all three horses. The only other time he heard him speak so soft was late at night, when he was exhausted, and intent on telling John how much he loved him.

John smiled to himself, and listened to the sound of his lover affectionately speaking to the horses, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

Only once he heard the sound of rapidly approaching hooves and Arthur stop talking entirely did he open them. With a frown, he rose from his seat and peered through the window, the newcomer’s deep voice echoing throughout the small valley.

His blood ran cold as his eyes landed on the newcomer.

Exiting onto the front porch, John ran into Arthur’s back, who had quickly backed away from the newcomer. “Son, don’t run away from me—” Dutch said softly, freezing upon his eyes landing on John. John stood next to Arthur, glaring at Dutch and taking his lover’s hand. Dutch let out a disapproving hum. “I thought I had raised you boys better.”

“By instilling fear?” John asked, cocking his head back. Arthur did not say anything, and John interrupted as he watched Dutch’s mouth open. “You did nothing. I may have once seen you as a father, but I see you as nothin’ now.”

Dutch scowled. “After all I did for you?”

“Treating us with basic respect isn’t much.” John said, jerking his chin out.

He wanted to protest as Arthur forced himself between him and Dutch, but he was rather surprised when Arthur said, “I think you should leave, Dutch.”

Dutch’s eyes softened. “Son—I—”

“I don’t care.” It was said louder than Arthur probably meant too, but it got his point across. “Don’t care if ya need shelter, if you want us to help you, I _don’t_ care. You ain’t gonna ruin the one good thing that’s going for me.”

Dutch tried to protest—tried to find _some way_ to get Arthur back on his side. But once he saw their intertwined hands, Dutch relented, stepping back. “I thought this would have been a warm welcome. I see now that I was wrong.”

“If you come back,” Arthur warned, “I ain’t afraid to run and get the law. If you come back, you’ll end up in a hangman’s noose.” This threat was a surprise, but John hid his disbelief. Dutch looked hurt, oh-so-incredibly hurt, but Arthur did not move. Only once they had watched Dutch ride off into the distance and disappear did Arthur fall a bit, slumping against the door. John grabbed him, gently lowering him to the porch and sat down with him, gently stroking his cheek. Arthur inhaled, and buried his face in the man’s palm.

“I’m proud of you,” John murmured.

“Should’ve done that years ago.”

John shook his head. “We wouldn’t have saved Abigail, or Bill, or Sadie, or Jack, or any of the other women. I’m glad we did what we did.” Arthur reached up to cover his hand with his own, and closed his eyes.

“So much suffering would have been avoided.”

“You don’t know that,” John retorted, shaking his head.

Arthur sighed, leaning forward and gently pressed a kiss to his lips. John inhaled sharply, and pressed back against him, slowly climbing into his lap, ignoring that they could be seen.

They were free.


End file.
